


Lest We Forget

by JessieBlackwood



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Remembrance Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-02 00:25:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to surprise John on the one day he wants some privacy. Trouble is, nothing is ever that simple. John doesn't want to be surprised, and he has no intention of allowing anything to get in the way of his promise. When Mycroft also gets involved, John has had enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Two Two One Bravo Baker](https://archiveofourown.org/works/180121) by [abundantlyqueer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/pseuds/abundantlyqueer). 



> This is for all the soldiers I have known, admired and loved, for those who have passed, those who are retired and those still serving, in particular Dudley (2 Commando, WW2, one of the originals, father of my best mate, sadly now passed), Tony (Dudley's son and brother of my best mate, retired), Phil (currently in the TAs and still serving), Steve (ex-para, retired), and Frank (SAS retired) in the UK and Mike (Tank Sergeant) in the US. Thank you for your dedication, guys. Heroes all.
> 
> This work is partially inspired by the excellent Two Two One Bravo Baker by abundantlyqueer, although I have not used any characters in that series apart from our leading men of course.
> 
> Sherlock is owned by the BBC, Messrs Moffat and Gatiss. I don't own the characters, even though the idea is mine. Any resemblance to any persons either living or dead is purely coincidental and unintended.

It was a bright day for November, crisp and clear, sun shining, blue sky overhead sporting white fluffy clouds. John Watson gazed at his reflection in the mirror as he was shaving and sighed. Five years. Five years since Afghanistan. Five years since his life had turned upside down. He scowled at himself and exited the bathroom. Sherlock was on the couch again, curled up facing away from him. John went into the kitchen and found himself some breakfast. He was careful to say nothing, not one word, to Sherlock. He had somewhere to be this morning and nothing was going to stop him. He knew the man had registered his presence but he neither moved nor said anything. John didn’t encourage either.

He managed to return to his room without so much as a word to or from Sherlock and he was beginning to think he might just get away with this. He had managed it every year since being discharged, but since this was the year that Sherlock had cleared his name, saved his friends and returned with a flourish, John was not sure what would happen. He gazed at himself in the mirror again as he was adjusting his tie, then flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his lapel. He looked...haggard. Old. He allowed himself a grim laugh. It didn’t actually matter, though, did it? He wasn’t out to pull a bird today.

Shrugging on an uncharacteristically sober and hardly-worn black wool overcoat over his equally sober and hardly-worn charcoal-grey suit, he found he couldn’t decide whether to take his cane with him or not. Pride warred with the possibility of being jostled. There was the added value that people took a little more care when they saw his limp. Didn’t always work but he figured that with all the standing around he was about to do, not to mention the walking, he might need it anyway. He sighed, then picked it from its hiding place behind the door. Checked his watch... 08.30. Okay so far. He was as ready as he ever would be. He fingered the hard coldness of the metal in his pocket. Couldn’t decide about that either. In the end, he left it in his pocket and went quietly out of his room and down the stairs...to find Sherlock waiting for him, fully clothed, scarf around his neck and that Bellstaff coat hanging on his lean frame with more style than anyone should be allowed, especially at that time in the morning.

“And where do you think you’re going?” John demanded.  
“Out,” came the succinct reply.  
“Where?”  
“With you.”  
“No, you’re not. Not today, Sherlock. I have an appointment.”  
“John, I know what today is.”  
“Then you’ll know why you can’t come with me.”  
“I also know that you’ll probably need the distraction eventually, or at the very least, you’ll need someone to talk to. You know how impossibly boring these things get....”  
“Fine!” John could probably ditch him later. “One thing. Promise me one thing, Sherlock. When the time comes, just stay silent, okay? Not one word, you got that?” Sherlock’s eyes met his and he nodded. “Fine, then.” Damn, this was going wrong. He had wanted to be alone for this.

Two steps out of the door and down the road and Sherlock held his hand out for a cab just as a sleek black car pulled up alongside the curb next to them.  
“Oh, God, noooo,” John groaned. Could this day get any worse? This was precisely what he had wanted to avoid. He wanted a quiet day, to himself.  
“Get in,” Anthea said and waited, texting madly. When they didn’t immediately avail themselves of the transport, two large men in dark suits got out and menaced them as only large men in dark suits can without drawing too much attention to themselves on a quiet street in London on a Sunday. Sherlock glanced at John with an unreadable expression and then slid inside.  
“Great. I can’t even do this without permission!” John exploded. “One day of the fucking year, that’s all I ask. One bloody day...” he glared out the window as they drove off into the morning London traffic, seething quietly.

When the car pulled off the road behind Whitehall and into a courtyard in the centre of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, John’s face registered shock. They were only a street away from the seat of power itself. The car pulled up and the men in front jumped out and opened the doors. John and Sherlock got out, looking around them as the car drove off again.  
“What the hell are we doing here?” John asked nobody in particular. Nobody answered so it was probably just as well.  
“Follow me, gentlemen,” Anthea said and set off toward the entrance. She was waved through without so much as a word and the two men followed in her wake, ushered through the doors and up staircases, a rabbit warren that John knew he probably wouldn’t find his way out of without help. Finally she opened a door and held it for them. Sherlock swept through and smiled genially at his brother, Mycroft, who returned the gesture. That was surreal. Normally nothing passed between the brothers apart from chilly stares and snide remarks. Today, though, they seemed in perfect accord about something.  
“John,” Mycroft said warmly, extending a hand. John glared and ignored the offered hand. “Ah, well, you’re probably wondering what all this is about.”  
“Are you going to tell me?”  
“All in good time, John, all in good time. Now, there’s someone waiting for you,” he said and turned toward another door that opened into an airy room decorated with plenty of 19th century portraits in heavily gilded frames, pieces of elegant antique furniture lining the walls. Mycroft ushered both men in, John first, Sherlock following, and followed in after them. As they entered a shout hailed them.  
“Christ, lads, it’s the Butcher!” John frowned and squinted against the light coming through the tall windows. Sherlock frowned at the title and glanced at Mycroft, who smiled vaguely.  
“Madoc?” John could not believe his eyes. Jack Madoc stood there, large as life in his dress uniform, a look of glee on his face nevertheless.  
“Christ, Doc! What the fuck are you doing here?”  
“Wish I knew, Jack.” He glanced at Mycroft. “Ours not to reason why, eh?”  
“Nice tay see ye, Butch! You’re lookin’ good.” Findlay Murray grinned, his Glaswegian brogue as familiar as the last time John had seen him, in the back of a helicopter being repatriated back home. He had been one of the lucky ones. He had only lost his foot.  
“Doc, great to see you!”  
“Hi, Doc, remember me?” the two younger men who jostled forward, grins plastered on their beardless faces, thrust out sun-browned hands to be shaken.  
“Take it easy, fellas! Give the man some breathing room.” Alex Mitchinson blocked his two younger compatriots with his bulk and thrust out a hand. “Good to see you, doc. How are you?” John realised he had missed Mitch’s easy smile, his calm and friendly demeanor.  
“Not bad. You?” John shook hands with them all and was roughly pulled into a bear hug by Madoc. They exchanged pleasantries for a while until John realised that Sherlock was standing behind him and sighed. “Lads, meet Sherlock Holmes. The world’s only consulting detective. Sherlock, Lieutenants Findlay Murray, Tony Black, and Alex Mitchinson. The runt over there is Corporal Josh Sinclair and this Scouse Git is Jack Madoc.”  
“That's Major Scouse Git to you,” he grinned and saluted, then reached to shake Sherlock’s hand. “You’re not as tall as I thought you were.” Madoc was on a level with him, scrutinising him carefully.  
“The precaution of a long coat and a small friend...” Sherlock smiled. “I also stand on a box occasionally...” The men laughed. Ice broken, John thought.  
“Okay, spill. What are we all doing here?” John fixed Sherlock with a look. “You are entirely too fucking friendly with that brother of yours which leads me to believe you knew about this.”  
“We’ll make a consulting detective out of you yet,” Sherlock declared. “Although I should have thought that this was obvious, John. You disappoint me. We’re here for the parade, you’ll get a much better view from the balcony than from street level. Plus, Mycroft shipped in a few of your comrades to share it with you.”  
“That’s...nice, but tell me he didn’t pull half an operational unit off the Afghan patrols just to come say hello to me?”  
“Not at all. They’re doing me a favour at the same time, rest assured.”  
“Which is?”  
“Time will tell, John. Don’t fret. Everything is laid on today. Lunch....”  
“Oh, don’t!” John snapped. “Do not give me any of your...cryptic comments...today of all days. I am absolutely not staying to lunch.” He ignored Sherlock’s surprised look and walked to the window to see where they were. Front row seats in the balcony, straight over Whitehall. He leaned on the parapet and breathed deeply. He was on edge. It washed over him suddenly, erasing the partial good mood that had started on finding his compatriots waiting for him. He frowned and lifted his left hand. He was shaking again. Damn it, that bloody tremor was back. He fisted his hand and dug the nails into his palm.  
“You okay, John?” Findlay asked quietly. He received a tight smile.  
“I’ll survive.” He looked at the floor. “I had intended to go...you know...this morning... I promised, Fin.”  
“Aye, I know you did. Can’t ye get that stuffed shirt to send us in his car?”  
“That stuffed shirt would sell his own grandmother if it was necessary for National Security,” John muttered. “I do not want any favours from him.”  
“Were you planning on meeting with Denise then?”  
“I was hoping to. I wouldn’t want her to think...” he stalled. Wouldn’t want her to think I’d forgotten. That I didn’t care any more.  
“Call her?”  
“I’ve tried. I keep getting number unobtainable and they won’t put a call though reception unless I’m family. Besides, what could I say? I’ve been unavoidably detained because I’ve got front row seats for the main event. She should be here, Fin. She has more right than I do.” Fin reached out and gripped his shoulder in support.  
“You’ve every right, old son. She’d forgive ye, you know.”  
“I don’t want her to forgive me, Fin, I want to be there...”  
“Be where, John?” Sherlock was curious.  
“You wouldn’t understand,” John snapped and stalked off. Sherlock watched him go with a frown. He turned to Fin but the man avoided his eyes and disappeared inside.

At 9.30am they were served coffee and biscuits but John didn’t touch any. He was angry. He had specifically wanted to keep this day to himself. He was due at the chapel for 10.30 and although he had no intention of missing his appointment, he knew he probably wouldn’t make it now. He had a promise to keep and this year he would break it for the first time in five years. Mycroft caught up with him on the balcony again, staring down the street. The cenotaph was almost directly outside. God knew what security level Mycroft must have to be able to commandeer this room. It was a prime spot for a sniper. John sat down, aware his leg was aching.  
“You’re under stress, Doctor. Is there a problem?” Mycroft was standing observing him from about ten feet away. “Is this not to your liking?”  
“Honestly, no. I have...had...an important appointment I needed to keep. I won’t make it now, so frankly it doesn’t matter, does it?” he snarled, and forcing himself to his feet, he walked away. Anything to save himself from punching that self-righteous git in the face. If only he could leave but he wouldn’t get ten yards without Mycroft’s goons coming to escort him back.

“It seems the good doctor doesn’t appreciate our kindness, dear brother,” Mycroft commented, dryly. Sherlock was leaning on the parapet, glowering into the street. “Don’t scowl. You’ll upset Her Majesty.”  
“Fu...!”  
“Don’t!” he snapped as Sherlock opened his mouth. “I would find out what is bothering Dr Watson if I were you, Sherlock. He looks under stress...”

“Oh, come on, John, I’m sure you can reschedule. This is important...” Sherlock had come up beside him again on the balcony.  
“Oh, and I’m sure I can’t. You didn’t even ask me, did you? No warning. No “do you have any plans for Sunday?”. No, because any time you or that git of a brother of yours arrange something everybody else has to stop what they’re doing and fall in with the party line. Well not me. I had an appointment. I’m going to miss it because of this. I promised, Sherlock. I am now going to have to break that promise to someone I care about...”  
“Who is she?”  
“Never mind...”  
“John, how can I understand if you shut me out?”  
“What’s the matter?” Mycroft had appeared at the sound of raised voices.  
“Okay, you want to understand? Right then. You know, today I wanted for me, I wanted privacy. But no, I’m not getting that, am I?” He glared at Mycroft. “You... you never do what your Brother wants. Why today?” Mycroft glanced over, exchanging a glance with Sherlock who was frankly looking worried. Let him! John was seething. It was nice meeting the lads again. Those guys were excellent friends and comrades. But this... John fingered the hard metal in his pocket again and frowned. Then very deliberately, he walked out. Security be damned, he thought.

Mycroft immediately called one of his men to him and gave the man discreet orders. “Follow, keep him out of trouble, but allow him to let off a little steam. Keep him from doing any damage, give him a few minutes and then escort him back. Is that clear?”  
“Sir.” The man left at a jog, another one joining him. Mycroft sighed. Findlay Murray approached with caution and waited politely.  
“Yes? What can I do for you... Findlay, wasn’t it?”  
“Yes, sir. Mr. Holmes, has the doctor gone? Is he alright?”  
“No, he hasn’t gone, exactly. He needed a little breathing space,” Mycroft offered.  
“Damn it, I don’t know what is wrong with him,” Sherlock frowned. “He doesn’t make any sense. I knew he was coming here...”  
“Excuse me, sir, but...”  
“But what?”  
“He was nay coming here.”  
“He wasn’t?” Sherlock glanced at Mycroft but his attention was all on Murray.  
“No, sir, he was nay. He was heading for Ongar. That’s where he always goes.”  
“Ongar? What happens to be at Ongar?”  
“St Martin’s Church. It’s where a...compatriot of ours is buried.”  
“And this has to do with today, how?”  
“That’s Dr Watson’s business really. It’s for him to tell you.”  
“Just tell us,” Mycroft snapped.  
“No,” Murray snapped back, much to Mycroft’s surprise. All the lads closed ranks on the Holmes brothers then, tight lips being the order of the day.

Watson walked the corridors, aware that he was being followed but that the men did not seem intent on returning him. He reached an outside door, unsure where he was, and stood just outside, breathing the cold clear air. He leaned against a railing and slumped. Only one day, that’s all he asked. It wasn’t a big ask either, just one single day...

“So why is Ongar so important?” Sherlock pressed. “John said he made a promise.”  
“He did. To a dying man. Look, I don’t want to say more...”  
“Tell them, Fin,” Madoc said gently. “If John takes exception, he can take it up with me.”  
Murray glanced up at him and frowned. “You want the responsibility, you tell him. With respect, sir...” Murray added as an afterthought. The two men traded exasperated glances and Madoc took a breath and let it go slowly.  
“Dr Watson is not just a doctor, he didn’t just give us our shots and hand out condoms and warn us about STDs. He was a surgeon, you do know that, don’t you?” Madoc asked. Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt to make some cutting remark, but Mycroft elbowed him in the ribs. He shut his mouth with a grunt, exchanged a glare with his brother and then refocused on Madoc and simply nodded. “He was one of the people who put us back together when we got damaged,” Madoc said, ignoring the altercation. “We nicknamed him the Butcher, traditional name for a medic in the army. Actually he was anything but. John is very good at what he does but the name stuck anyway. No matter how brilliant he is though, sometimes even he can’t work miracles.”  
“Believe me, I was one of the medical orderlies,” Murray added. “I’ve seen him at work. He’s a damn fine surgeon, but Madoc is right. He can only do so much at the end of the day.”  
“He lost someone?” Sherlock suggested. Murray grimaced and nodded.  
“We went out on a nighttime evac, six men down. One of them turned out to be one of John’s friends from school. The lad was six hours in theatre and John was the attending surgeon. Bill Graham was his name.”  
“He died?”  
“John tried everything he knew. I watched him, I know how long he fought, but Bill died anyway. Flatlined three times, every time John brought him back. In the long run, though, the internal damage was too great.”  
“That wouldn’t sit well with the good doctor,” Mycroft murmured.  
“It didn’t, believe me,” Murray said softly. “John made a promise to Bill before he died, though. He told him that he would go see his sister, Denise, and make sure she was okay and he would go every year on Remembrance Sunday, and say a prayer for him. John isn’t a religious man but Bill was, and John Watson is an honourable one, so he keeps his promises.”  
“And I’ve made him break that promise. I didn’t see...”  
“John isn’t a very demonstrative or communicative man either, sir. I’m not surprised you didn’t know,” Findlay said.  
“I see he’s not wearing his gong either,” Madoc commented. “Again.”  
“Gong?” Sherlock asked.  
“His medal. Conspicuous Gallantry Cross,” Murray said. “Hardly ever wears it. He’s always believed he didn’t deserve it. I was with him on the mission where he got that. It was when he got shot. You can believe me, he deserves it alright. Wounded, under fire, he still continued to work on the injured men we’d come to evacuate, regardless of his own life or injuries.” He sighed heavily. “Denise will forgive him for missing today. She’s a lovely lass, just struggles to cope with life. She has good days and bad days, but John knows she loves today. She remembers her brother the hero, it makes her proud...”  
“Would she mind coming here, do you think?” Mycroft asked.  
“I doubt it, but she never goes anywhere without a carer. You’d need to clear it with them.”  
Thoughtful, Mycroft retreated and drew Anthea to him, conversing in low tones that the others could not hear.

After a few minutes, one of Mycroft’s men poked his head out of the door and asked politely if John would come back inside.  
“You have orders to restrain me if necessary, I suppose.” John sounded resigned.  
“I personally believe that being reasonable gets you further. Harry Francombe, Doctor Watson.” The man offered a hand. John shook it amicably enough. “I’m one of Mr Holmes’ chief negotiators. I’m rather more used to hostage situations but I can adapt. So, what will it take to get you to come inside again?”  
“You could just ask me.”  
“Simple enough,” Harry grinned. “So, will you come back inside?”  
“Not just yet,” John replied. “Besides, I thought you weren’t supposed to negotiate with the enemy?”  
“On the contrary, I am here to effect the best possible outcome,” Harry said, cheerfully. “For all concerned parties. In this case, it means keeping everybody happy. Mr Holmes has put his trust in you, you know, allowing you out here.”  
“He has?”  
“Oh yes, otherwise you would have been dragged back immediately. No, it’s obvious to me that he trusts you. At least, I know he’s had his men follow you, but he hasn’t ordered them to restrain you or keep you contained.”  
“That’s kind of him.”  
“So, what would it take?”  
“A fast car...no, maybe a helicopter, it’s faster. I want to get to Ongar and keep my promise. That’s all I wanted from today.”  
“Come inside and we’ll see what we can do.”

Less than half an hour later Sherlock sat down in front of John where Harry had left him while he went to converse with Mycroft. They had pretty much left him to his own devices but Mycroft’s men were keeping an eye on him now. John was pretty sure he wouldn’t be allowed to run off again.  
“Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been decorated?” Sherlock asked gently.  
“You make me sound like the sitting room,” John replied, attempting humour. It disappointingly fell flat. “I only did what anyone would have done,” John defended. “I was just doing my job.”  
“Above and beyond, John. You did more than just your job.” John shrugged and leaned back, staring at a crack in the ceiling. “John, I wouldn’t make a big fuss, you know me. But you should wear it. You’re an amazing man. Everyone should know just how amazing. Put it on, for me?”  
For a moment, John was speechless. “You think I’m amazing? Me?”  
“Yes, is that so hard to understand? Anyone who puts up with me on a regular basis has to be amazing.” John blinked, then barked a laugh and shook his head in resignation.  
“No. Sorry, Sherlock, but no. It’s not me. I didn’t...”  
“You’ve got it with you though?”  
“How did you know?”  
“You keep putting your hand in your jacket pocket and stroking something. No double entendre intended. Whatever it is, it’s too small to be your gun, it doesn’t weigh your jacket down on one side and it isn’t visible, it doesn’t alter the line of your coat. When you touch it, you get a look of concentration on your face, as if you can’t make up your mind what to do. You’re conflicted about it.”  
“Very clever. Who told you anyway? Murray?”  
“Yes, but he wouldn’t tell us why you were making such a fuss about today. Mycroft insisted so Madoc told us.” John sighed.  
“Did he tell you about Denise?”  
“Yes. Look, I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock sounded genuinely contrite. “I’ve been planning this for months. I wanted you to have a great view of the day, because I knew you did something every year, just not what. I had no idea...”  
“You could have asked.”  
“Wanted to surprise you. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”  
“Yes, I guess. Look, this is hard for me, Sherlock. It’s bloody difficult to try to teach you all the nuances of emotions and how they work. So much is based on playing a situation by ear and not working on logic and pattern and prediction. It’s totally the opposite of what you do. Emotions change on a whim. They’re unpredictable. On the one hand, people pull surprise parties, on the other hand some folks hate them. On the one hand it is good to ask if someone has something they want to do on a particular day but on the other that can ruin a surprise. Telling you what to do is virtually impossible, because there is so much that is based on...well, available data. It’s how you interpret it that matters.” John sighed and smiled. “I’m sorry too. I guess I shouldn’t be too angry, you did this for me and it’s an amazingly nice gesture. Thank you.”  
“You should wear your medal, John. You deserve it,” Sherlock urged.  
“Wear it for me, then? And for Bill?” John turned in surprise. Mycroft was shepherding a pretty, dark-haired woman into the room, her brown eyes alight with wonder. A youngish broad-faced man followed her, looking bemused. John shot to his feet and closed the gap.  
“Denise...I...”  
“Sh, John. It’s good to see you. Mr Holmes explained what happened.”  
“He did?”  
“Yes, John,” Mycroft interjected. “I took the liberty of informing Miss Graham about your circumstances. After all, you couldn’t very well refuse a royal invitation.” Mycroft smiled and John nodded.  
“They sent a helicopter for me, of all things,” Denise was excited. “Mr Holmes cleared it with Ashlands and they sent Sam with me. Are we in time?” John checked his watch.  
“Plenty of time. Have you been offered refreshments? Mycroft, something non-alcoholic for Miss Graham, maybe?”  
“Tea, coffee, fruit juice?” Mycroft turned on the genial host act and smiled ingratiatingly.  
“Tea would be amazing, thank you.” Denise turned back to John and then gazed around the room. “This is awesome.” She giggled like a fifteen year old and shook her head. “Can’t believe that this is real...” She walked across the room to peer down into Whitehall. “Oh my god, look at the view... Bill would have been so proud.” She turned back and gripped John’s hand. “Thanks for inviting me, John. This is the best way to remember him. Go on, please? Put your medal on, for him?” John frowned.  
“I don’t know, Denise. I mean...he deserved them more than me.”  
“He got one, posthumously. Look, I’m wearing it for him. So come on, John, wear it for us. Be proud of what you did. I know you couldn’t save him, but it wasn’t your fault. You tried your best and after all, you saved so many more. Now, let’s be proud for him and stand together?”  
John fetched his hand out of his pocket, the silver cross on it’s lilac ribbon glistening in his palm. Denise took it gently from him and pinned it carefully to the left breast of John’s dark coat. “There,” she said, patting it. “Perfect.”

The two minute silence was the best John had ever kept. Sherlock remained quiet the whole time. John was in good company, he had kept his promise in a roundabout way and he saw the whole procession from a superb vantage point. Sherlock was mildly surprised when, at the end of the two minute observation, John and his compatriots all silently came to attention and saluted. “Hammal Chandra,” John said softly.  
“Dingo McCall,” Madoc murmured.  
“Bob Barclay,” Fin said. “Ben Williams.”  
With a shock, Sherlock realised they must be reciting the names of their fallen comrades.  
“Tom Dennison,” Tony added. “Danny Sanderson.”  
“Grant Fletcher,” Alex murmured. “Andy Victor.”  
“Whisker Pritchard,” Josh sighed.  
“Bill Graham,” John added, looking at Denise, who had tears in her eyes but was smiling proudly.  
“Lest we forget,” Madoc said, his voice thick with emotion.  
“Lest we forget,” the rest chorused, and Denise joined in.  
“Lest we forget,” Sherlock murmured, almost inaudibly. Although he felt sure John had heard, if his sharp glance across at Sherlock meant anything at all. Sherlock broke the gaze first. He suddenly felt as if he were intruding, although John’s gaze had been neutral.

When they went back inside, dinner had been brought in for them all. The table had been laid, more seats brought in and the waiters served an amazing Sunday lunch. From the other side of the table, Sherlock watched John surreptitiously, seeing his animated expressions and gestures as he spoke to his mates. He hadn’t been this relaxed for months, maybe since Sherlock returned. John looked up and met his eyes. Sherlock froze, uncertain. He felt sure the doctor’s expression would change--possibly for the worse--when he clapped eyes on his flatmate and then Sherlock would be alone again.

John found he was really hungry. The food was delicious, the lads were relaxed and everyone was talkative and joking, and even Denise was having a good day. They had all observed their remembrance ritual, something they hadn’t done in a long time. It renewed their bond, the shared bond of combat, a bond John had missed along with the war. He was sure he had seen Sherlock mouthing the words as well, as if he wanted to be part of it, part of their group. He had looked...diminished, somehow. Solitary. Sad. John looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes. Oddly the man looked almost scared. He raised his eyebrows in an are you alright gesture, subtly twitching his head on one side in emphasis. Sherlock frowned, then brightened, nodded once and smiled a small uncertain smile. John smiled more broadly, a gentle smile loaded with friendship and happiness. Sherlock visibly relaxed with relief. John nodded and pulled his attention back to something Denise had said, ending their silent conversation. He was mildly surprised that Sherlock had managed to pick up on the non-verbal clues there. There was hope for him yet.

Sherlock felt relief wash though him. John wasn’t mad with him. He wasn’t unhappy. Mycroft was watching him and he quickly schooled his features into a mask again. Too late of course. Mycroft had seen and understood the expressions fleeting across his face.  
“Give him time, brother dear,” he said gently. “He won’t stay mad at you forever.”  
“He said it would take him time to forgive me, when I came back. He was hurt that I didn’t trust him.”  
“You couldn’t. We both know that John is not a good actor. He knows it too. He understands why we didn’t trust him but his sense of pride is hurt. As I said, he’ll come around. In fact, I think he may just be turning the corner as we speak....” They both looked over toward where John sat joking with Jack and Fin.  
“I hope so. I actually do trust him, Mycroft,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. He sounded surprised at his own admission. “Just not with acting. Than man cannot lie to save his life...”  
“John is an honourable man,” Mycroft stated, although whether or not he approved was not revealed in his tone. He couldn’t resist a small self-satisfied smile though. There was hope for Sherlock yet.


	2. What We Have.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follow-on from last year's Remembrance Day, this year's doesn't go according to plan for John either.
> 
> Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental and unintentional. 
> 
> WARNING for strong language in this one and relationship discussions.

“I can’t believe I’m going to miss it.” John lay back against the hospital pillows, eyes narrowed and mouth set in a grim line. Sherlock sat nearby, observing the frustrated tension in the set of John’s jaw and his drawn-down brows.

“You could still watch it on television,” Sherlock offered, despite understanding that to John that would be less than second best.

“Not the same, Sherlock. You should know that.”

“Well, it isn’t your fault that your appendix decided to burst yesterday. At least you’ll be alright now. I have to admit, you had me worried for a while. I was quite impressed with Lestrade. He got us to A&E quite fast.”

“A police car will do that, Sherlock.”

“I’ve never been in a police car with its sirens going like that. I had no idea that Greg was such a good driver.” John smiled to note the almost childish glee in Sherlock's voice. He sounded like a excited little kid at the memory of the mad emergency dash through London rush hour traffic. John had realised that the growing pain in his belly was potentially dangerous as Sherlock was casually deducing Lestrade’s crime scene. Greg had been amazing though. He hadn’t waited for the ambulance to arrive, citing that it was probably as quick to use a squad car and promptly got behind the wheel.

“He’s a policeman who happens to be trained in pursuit driving. Of course he’s good at it,” John said.

“I must admit you had me worried when you said it had stopped hurting.”

“Yes, well, you weren’t the only one. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.” _When you are a doctor, you know the consequences of a burst appendix,_ John thought. _Not a pretty scenario._

“Is it? I haven’t found that to be particularly true.” Sherlock frowned. Usually he hated ignorance with a passion. He had to understand the far end of everything; always supposing it pertained to a case.

“Look, why don’t you get off home,” John suggested. “You should get back on that case. Greg will need you.”

“Nonsense, John. I want to be here, with you. The case comes a poor second to your welfare. You’re looking a little peaky. Shall I get the nurse?”

“No, Sherlock. I just need sleep. Would you shut up for a while and let me rest ? Please? I’m still a bit woozy from the anaesthetic...”

“Of course, John. I’ll sit here and watch over you.” Sherlock did just that, wondering whether John would even be awake on the morrow to watch the parade down Whitehall on television. He hadn’t missed attending since he got back from Afghanistan, although last year Sherlock’s best efforts at giving him a better view nearly ended in disaster. Mycroft actually made sure everything had worked out well though, Sherlock thought grudgingly, watching John drift in a warm drug-induced doze.

Sherlock was, surprisingly, still there when John woke up, laptop on his knees, tapping away in a frenzy. He looked up at John as the doctor’s eyes opened sleepily. “Did I wake you?” Sherlock enquired, voice pitched low.

“No. I’m surprised to find you still here, that’s all.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I did say I would stay.”

“Yes, you did, but there’s a case. Isn’t there?”

“Pft. Boring. Too easy. It was the husband. I emailed Greg with my findings an hour ago.”

“I’ve been out for an hour?”

“No, you’ve been out for two, I only worked it out an hour ago.” Sherlock looked up as the door opened to admit a small blond nurse who looked about fifteen. John smiled but then grimaced in sudden discomfort.

“Now then, Doctor Watson, how are we feeling?”

“Ah, hello, nurse. I’m not feeling too bad actually. A little tender but nothing I can’t handle. Any chance of being discharged?”

“Not until Monday, now. The doctor in charge will need to sign you out as I’m sure you know. You need to stay with us a while though, just to make sure you’re responding to treatment. A burst appendix can have complications, but it’s no use me telling you that. Sounds like I’m teaching my grandmother to suck eggs.”

“Looks like you’re stuck for the weekend then,” Sherlock commiserated. “Would you like me to see if Mycroft can intervene?”

“You’d ask your brother for a favour for me? I’m not sure I want to be the cause of you being indebted to your brother for anything.”

“He owes _me_ , not the other way around. He still owes me a favour from the last time I got him results on that case of that missing General.”

“Still going to miss the parade. It’ll be the first year I’ve missed it completely. I was invited to lay a wreath at the regimental garden of rest this year as well. We lost six men over the last twelve months. I wanted to help remember them.”

“A wreath won’t bring them back, John.”

“It’s a mark of respect.” John muttered pointedly. He sighed deeply. He wondered if Sherlock would ever learn.

“I’ll be back in a moment. Call of nature,” Sherlock explained and left the room. The call to Mycroft didn’t take long and his brother was actually only too pleased to arrange matters. It might require working on some case or other for his brother in the near future, but Sherlock wasn’t too worried. Mycroft usually only gave him interesting things to work on. When he got back, Sherlock wasn’t sure whether to tell John about the arrangements but John was asleep so that settled that as far as Sherlock was concerned. He wasn’t about to wake his best friend for something he would find out soon anyway so he simply sat back to wait.

\--------

“Doctor Watson?” John roused from a pleasant doze to see the night sister looming over him. “It’s alright, Doctor. I’m sorry to wake you, but you’re being transferred.”

“Transferred? Where?” John’s eyes slid across the where Sherlock was sitting with a smirk on that pretty face, his generous mouth curved in a frankly self-satisfied smile.

“To a private hospital,” the sister was saying. “The ambulance is downstairs waiting. I’ll send someone to get you prepped for travelling. I have the paperwork signed and ready.”

“Sherlock, what have you done?”

\--------

Sherlock oversaw the transfer personally, sitting in the ambulance with John as they ferried him the relatively short distance to the comfort of a private room in a very private hospital. Understandably Mycroft had arranged for a bed in the same hospital the Royal family used, although it was by happy coincidence used by military officers as well. For once Sherlock could not fault Mycroft’s choice and considered it more than appropriate. John would fit in well. The journey was quick, which was a mercy because John was aching by the time they arrived.

“Good evening, Captain Watson. I’m Sister Graham,” the nursing sister said as John was wheeled out of the lift by the EMTs. “Welcome to King Edward VII Hospital. We’ll have you comfortable in a jiffy. Now,” she turned her attention on Sherlock. “Your husband will be fine, Mr Holmes. Can I ask you to stay here while we just get him comfortable and settled and then you can come right in. Nurse Blake will get you refreshments while you wait.” Sherlock nodded, and grasped John’s hand for a moment, his demeanor altered dramatically.

“Thank you, Sister,” Sherlock said and allowed his bottom lip to tremble just a little before turning it into a brave smile, and, bending down, he dropped a kiss on his—somewhat surprised— _husband’s_ cheek. "I'll be with you soon," he said softly. 

“If you wish, you can use our wifi facilities in the lounge area to contact your brother, Mr Holmes. He asked me to tell you he would appreciate it if you could let him know you’d both arrived safely.” Sherlock nodded and squeezed John’s shoulder. Then the porter wheeled John into his room.

“Oh, my god...” John muttered. The room was palatial, more like a hotel room with a hospital bed in it. In fact there were two beds, although one was a normal single on the other side of the room. There was an enormous flat-screen television on the wall opposite the hospital-style bed, built in wardrobes and storage, and an en-suite bathroom which looked more like a wet-room, the glimpse John got of it as he passed. The curtains were heavy and the decor was tastefully restful. He was transferred into bed, settled by two pretty nurses who fussed over his every need and made sure his pain medication was adequate and that he was comfortably propped on pillows before leaving him alone.

The sister appeared with a doctor in tow a few minutes later. “Captain Watson? I’m Peter Wells,” the doctor introduced himself. “I gather your appendix has been removed, emergency surgery wasn’t it?”

“Yesterday, yes. It burst before I could reach hospital.”

“Nasty business, but I don’t doubt you’ll be fine. I’ve checked your antibiotics and been in touch with the doctors at Bart’s. There’s no reason not to continue as they began, so we’ll manage your pain medication and continue with the same regime. If you don’t mind, I’ll give you the once over and then I’ll let you get some rest.” He very thoroughly checked his patient over, murmuring conversationally the while. “We have you listed as _Captain_ Watson. May I enquire which service?”

“5th Northumberland Fusiliers,” John replied readily. “Although I was invalided out a few years ago. Afghanistan.”

“Ah, so you were wounded?”

“Yes. Left shoulder. Shot in the back.”

“May I see?”

John nodded. “Of course.”

Peter regarded the scar, gentle fingers probing. “It doesn’t cause you any problems now?”

“No, very little. Aches in cold or damp weather, but that’s it.”

“Good. Well, it looks like that’s the best you’re going to get. Whoever did the repair was good.”

“A colleague, Doctor James. She was, _very_ good.”

“Well, you can rest assured she did a very neat job there.”

“Good to know.” John forced a smile. Cheryl James was another casualty, only she hadn’t been so lucky. A SAM had destroyed the helicopter that was taking her on an evac mission. There had been no survivors of that one. She had been one of the regiment’s losses last year.

“Well,” the doctor was saying. “I’ll let you get some rest now. We’ll let your husband back in to see you. Is he staying the night?”

“Um... I’m not sure...”

“You live in Baker Street I see, so he wouldn’t be far, but if he would prefer to stay he can. Is he very worried about you? Sister Harrington said she thought he was a little upset.”

“Well, I was able to tell him the basics of it, so he understands, but... you know...We’ve not been together long,” John lied, keeping up the front.

Peter nodded, his smile sympathetic. “Well, I’ll tell him he can come back in. Seeing you awake should allay his fears but if you need help, let Sister know. If you need anything, the nurses showed you where the call button is, I presume.”

John nodded. “Yes, they did.”

“Anything at all, Dr. Watson, just ask. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Goodnight, doctor.”

Moments later Sherlock dashed in and came to a halt, a smirk on his lips again. John sighed.

“So, did you tell them I was your husband?”

“I think that was Mycroft’s doing. At least it smoothed the way. They won’t try to stop me seeing you and staying if they think we’re married.”

“Frankly, I’m amazed that you want to bother. You’ll get bored.”

“Bored? With you? I hardly think so, John.” Sherlock’s voice dropped a little deeper, if that was possible. “I came back, didn’t I? I came back to you. Not bored, you see. Never with you.”

John wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. He had known it, really, but Sherlock had this way of taking things for granted and glossing over any remotely difficult issues--such as those involving emotions--in favour of continuing where he left off. “I rather like it, actually,” John said softly.

Sherlock stopped as if poleaxed. “What?”

“I said, I rather like it.”

“I know...I mean... why?”

“Why? Because I do, that’s why.”

“No, why do you like it?”

“I don’t have a reason, you prat. I just do. I... like us being together. I like that you can stay with me.”

“Oh.”

“Look, Sherlock, just because I like it, doesn’t mean I want to run off and get married. We’re two blokes, for goodness’ sake. Neither of us is good at discussing how we feel. Besides, you’re married to your work and I’m not gay. We’re best friends. We’re almost family, we’ve been through so much together. Why on earth wouldn’t I like it that nobody tries to stop us sticking together through this?”

“I see.” Sherlock’s voice was smaller than normal. He tried to dislodge the lump in his throat. John actually wanted him there, with him. He looked comfortable, content, despite the necessarily intrusive hospital accoutrements of drip feed and drain line that were physical reminders to Sherlock’s eyes that at the moment John was a patient and recovering from surgery. It made Sherlock’s sides ache to keep the sudden uncharacteristic surge of emotion at bay. He sat down on one of the very comfortable chairs near the bed, closed his eyes and steepled his hands.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” John’s voice grounded him, calmed him and reminded him that the man was alive and recovering and near.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“You’re a bad liar,” John said with a smile. “What’s wrong? Have I said something...?”

“No, no,” Sherlock lied again.

 _“Sherlock?”_ John’s tone of voice was loaded with warning. Sherlock’s eyes came up to meet John’s and he was rendered mute by what he saw. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” John said gently. “Right now, I need rest. Apparently you are welcome to stay here. But we’re a stone’s throw from Baker Street. They’ll call a cab for you if you’d rather go home.”

“I want to stay,” Sherlock admitted softly. “I’ll go tell the nurses.”

“Okay. Look, I like it that you want to stay, okay?”

“John?” Sherlock paused in the door and turned back. “What is it that we have, exactly, you and I?” The pose was blindingly reminiscent of their first meeting, when Sherlock had paused in the door, leaned back around and said “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street...” John swallowed, struck by how much had changed between them, as well as how much hadn’t.

“I dunno, love. Something....” John frowned and shook his head a little. “Look, I’ll talk to you about this tomorrow. It’s getting late and I need to sleep. Go speak to the Sister.”

\------------

Sherlock spent the night watching John’s sleeping face from his position in the single bed across the room. For once, John’s sleep was peaceful, deep and nightmare-free. That had been one reason for Sherlock’s decision to stay. Something in him had balked at the thought of John suffering a nightmare in an unfamiliar place, waking to strangers instead of his flatmate. Sherlock himself managed a few hours, although he was up before dawn, staring out of the window at the street below, listening to the night sounds of his city. It grounded him, second only to his violin for anchoring him in the present, soothing his mind and body with its familiar rhythm. He paced the room slowly for a while, and then went in search of coffee as dawn broke. The nurses obligingly helped with that, furnishing him with proper coffee instead of the ever-present instant stuff the NHS seemed to thrive on. Yet another reason to commend Mycroft’s choice of medical establishment. He took it back to John’s room, perching on a chair and sipping it while watching the world outside come awake.

Later, Sherlock lay on his bed thinking, turning over events in his mind, replaying things they had said to each other. He loved John; that much was certain. As far as he could love, always supposing he understood the emotion. He also knew without doubt that John loved him back. Whether they were a couple was a debatable point. He rolled off the bed and went to shower, dressing again before John woke and perching himself to watch television. He would wake John in time to see the parade and the two minute silence. John would want to observe that much, even if he couldn’t be there.

A knock heralded the morning shift of nurses and Sherlock smiled at them as John roused at their bustle. “Good morning, Doctor. Morning, Mr. Holmes,” they chorused, busying themselves about the place, opening the blinds, tidying things up and checking John’s condition. “Breakfast will be along for you both shortly. You’re on fluids for now, doctor.” John nodded. He had known he would be, at least until they were sure any infection had gone and his wounds had healed.

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t want anything,” he muttered to John after the nurses had gone.

“So don’t have anything. You don’t have to eat, but it would do you good. You’re not on a case.”

“I’m looking after you though. I don’t want to be impaired.”

“You are not looking after me, the nurses are. You can eat, love.”

“You did it again.”

“Did what again?”

“You called me love,” Sherlock stated.

“Oh, sorry. It’s just an endearment. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

“No, I never said I didn’t like it, just... that you’ve done it twice.” Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“Because you’re a close friend?”

Sherlock huffed and switched the television on. “I thought you might want to watch the parade and observe the two minute silence today? Even if you can’t be there?”

“What? Oh, yes, thanks. I would. Poor second, but it’ll have to do. I should text people, let them know I won’t be there.”

“Already done. I accessed your phone and your email list and sent messages to those people I thought were key, asked them to pass the news on. I may have let on where you were...”

John was shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

A knock on the door interrupted them. “Come in?” Sherlock called after glancing at John and seeing his nod. The door opened and a messenger came in with a basket of flowers.

“Doctor Watson?” he asked and John raised a hand. “These are yours, sir. Where shall I put them?”

“Oh, anywhere, thanks.”

Sherlock retrieved the card and said “These are from Mycroft. _Get well soon, regards, MH._ Christ, he’s not sending a text.”

John laughed then grimaced. “Ouch, that hurts. Don’t make me laugh, okay?” Sherlock smiled and said nothing.

There was a second knock at the door a few minutes later. This time there was another bouquet of flowers with a card from Greg Lestrade. A third and a fourth arrangement arrived over the next half-hour and the place began to resemble a florist’s. The third proved to be from Harry and the fourth from John’s army mates, tumbling through the door with scant ceremony about ten minutes into the television coverage of the event.

“Bloody traffic,” Madoc complained.

“Anybody would think there was something special on,” Findlay Murray added with a chuckle.

“Blame Murray,” Alex Mitchinson said. “He wanted to stop at Tesco’s for the beer.”

“Well, we needed something to toast the poor buggers with,” Murray complained and threw himself into a vacant chair.

“I feel like a fucking wanker with these,” Madoc brandished the flowers. “Mitch insisted we get ‘em, the poofter.”

“It’s traditional, like the grapes and the choccies,” Alex protested, grinning widely. “Besides, I can’t resist the chance to make you look like a wanker. That’s traditional too.” He avoided the swipe Madoc aimed at the back of his head and fished in the Tesco’s bag, handing the grapes and chocolates to John. He tossed the offending six-pack to Murray who caught it deftly and levered one free of the plastic and cracked the ring-pull with a hiss. Alex then handed their fallen comrade a rather large and rather rude card of a big breasted nurse in skimpy uniform carrying an oversized thermometer and a dangerously large hypodermic. It declared for all to see that Nurse Nightly would be only too happy to sooth his fevered brow with her equipment. John shook his head and guessed that Jack Madoc had been the one to choose that.

John eventually pulled rank and ordered them to settle down so they wouldn’t miss the march down Whitehall and the wreath laying at the Cenotaph. When everybody was settled, John looked around him and wondered at the way fate played out. He was lying comfortably in a private room, his needs catered for; his best mates with him, watching the parade live on TV. As outcomes went, it could have been a lot worse and had turned out much, much better than he had hoped for. When it came to the two minutes, the whole of London seemed to fall silent, the men in the room gathering closer around John’s bed. When it ended, Sherlock was the first to intone a name.

“Clive Lancaster,” he said softly.

Surprised, John added “Cheryl James”. Madoc, Murray and Mitchinson all intoned their own additions until the list covered some twenty names. Murray handed Sherlock a beer and John had to make do with fruit juice but they all drank in silent salute to their fallen comrades.

“Who was Clive Lancaster?” John asked afterward.

“Journalist,” Sherlock said economically.

“The one the Taliban executed last February?” Madoc asked.

Sherlock nodded. “He and I were at Cambridge together. He helped me with a case a while ago. We were not friends but... he deserved respect. He was reporting on the plight of orphans in Afghanistan, when he and an aid worker were taken.” Sherlock bowed his head. “He wasn’t strictly military, I’m sorry if it wasn’t appropriate.”

“That doesn’t matter,” John replied, quick to reassure his friend. “What matters is that you remembered him. It gives them all dignity. He might not have served but he was in a war zone, serving in his own way.”

“Dignity and honour,” Madoc added, raising his beer can.

“I can’t remember the name of the aid worker.” Sherlock sounded worried. “That isn’t right, is it, John? I should remember. He has as much right to be remembered…”

“Well, you remembered Clive’s name,” John said.

“That’s a bit not good though, John. Why should he not be remembered as well?” Sherlock protested.

John gazed at him and smiled, revising his opinion. Maybe Sherlock had learned something after all.

“Rory Conlan,” Murray said into the silence that had fallen on the room.

“Pardon?” John frowned.

“That was the aid worker’s name, Rory Conlan. I Googled it on the i-phone.” Murray waggled his phone in the air.

“In which case,” John said, holding his hand toward Sherlock, palm up, indicating for him to speak.

Sherlock nodded and caught on. “Rory Conlan,” he murmured gently. “Lest we forget.”

“Lest we forget,” the other men intoned and they all raised their drinks again.

“Now, lads,” John said gently. “I’m sorry about this but I’m knackered and they’ll shout at me if you stay too long.”

“That’s okay mate. We were just off so we can catch a pub and get some grub. You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah, sound,” John reassured. “I have a good nurse.” He cast a swift look at Sherlock but the man didn’t see the exchange. “Take care, lads.” Each man came to grip John’s hand in parting, smiling and wishing him luck. “See you round.” He watched them go with something like regret but he was quite glad they hadn’t stayed longer. Sherlock came over and studied him.

“You’ve overtaxed yourself," he observed. "Close your eyes and rest. You don’t want them to keep you here longer than necessary, do you?”

“Hell, no. You might as well get some rest too, okay?”

Sherlock retreated to his own bed. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

John nodded and settled down, closing his eyes. “Sherlock?” he asked suddenly, eyes flying open again.

“Yes, John?”

“What we have,” he said, cautiously. He watched Sherlock put his head on one side and regard him with curiosity in his verdigris eyes. He reminded John of a Gyrfalcon he had once seen on the arm of a Pashtun in Afghanistan. The beautiful bird had swiveled its head to regard him with curiosity in its amazingly piercing eyes. “It’s ours,” John said simply. “I can’t name it, not yet. I’d just like it to continue as it is. It’s…well… it’s just _us_ , Sherlock. Could we do that, do you think?” John regarded his friend with a soft smile.

“And you’re not yet completely comfortable with _us_ , are you?” Sherlock suggested. 

“I’m not exactly _un_ comfortable, just…”

“I understand, John. Long held beliefs and patterns of behavior are very hard to break. They require remodeling, a different outlook. You’re already so different from the man I first met all that time ago, that someday....” Sherlock’s voice tailed off, his hopeful gaze locked on John’s.

“Someday,” John echoed. “Things will maybe evolve between us into something more. Besides, I don’t think that man you knew exists anymore.”

“He died, John. You changed, you left him behind. No bad thing, although he is still part of you. You shouldn’t forget him completely. He’s the reason why you’re here.”

John smiled, nodded. “Then there’s only one thing you can say to that,” he said with a smile. “Lest we forget.”


	3. A Break With Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again. Another Remembrance Sunday. What follows is a more poignant story that the previous two. In honour of the return of Sherlock with Series 3, here is the post-Reichenbach Lest We Forget because by the time I write another of these, we’ll have had series 3 and things will have moved on apace. More canon to write about, more fuel for the imagination. I know this doesn't really fit with Chapter One, because Reichenbach doesn't happen twice, and Sherlock doesn't return twice, and I have no excuse. However, I still hope you enjoy.

For once in his life, post Afghanistan, John broke with tradition. For once he had no desire to attend the marches, the parades, the cenotaph or any wreath laying. John was planning something quieter, more intimate. Just him and his best friend. Him and Sherlock, together for Remembrance Day.

It did not matter that his best friend had died in the worst way possible. No matter that John had witnessed the cruelest joke ever played or experienced the most helpless feeling of his entire life (and that including watching friends bleed out on the battlefield or on the operating table when there was nothing more he could do). No matter that he had been forced to watch someone actually take their own life. Something had made his friend act like that. _Something_ had forced his hand. John had to believe it because nothing else made sense. No matter what the cause, Sherlock would remain his best friend, the person he loved more than anybody else in this world, even if he wasn’t there to experience it.

“John, mate, what you doing for Remembrance Day this year?” Mitch asked when he phoned John at the beginning of September. The doctor rolled his eyes. Trust the logistics expert to plan ahead.

“Nothing, Mitch. Sorry, I’m not going to be here.”

“Not going to be...Why the hell not? You never miss…”

“Visiting a mate in the US. I’ll be away a couple of weeks.” That had seemed to satisfy the man, especially when John said the mate was an ex-army buddy.

“John, man. We meeting up on the 11th then? What about a bevvy at the pub?” Findlay Murray sounded slightly forced, as though someone had put him up to calling.

“Sorry, Fin. Not going to be here. Didn’t Mitch tell you?” _Or did he decide to see if I’d forget and tell you a different story?_ John told him about his plans to visit Mike in Maine; Mike Gracella, out in Portland. Didn’t Murray remember him, from Sangin? No? Oh well, he remembered Murray alright… Somehow, Murray bought the story and left him alone after that. Madoc called last, quizzing John the same way. He also displayed incredulity and then annoyance and then disbelief. None of it made a bit of difference. Jack was also firmly rebuffed.

Now each of his mates knew what John’s problem was. None of them had been living under a rock after all, and each one knew John very well indeed. Thus they did not buy his excuse that he was visiting the US. They knew a politely phrased rejection when they heard it, but they did not push things, realising that John Watson could not be pushed, deceived or cajoled into anything. However, each man knew their friend would either come out of it in his own time, or not, and more than one ex-comrade had gone that way.

If there was one thing John could rely on, it was his mates; to leave him alone as long as he stayed relatively sane or come running if John displayed any danger signs. In a new world where everything John had relied on had crumbled, knowing his mates were there in the background stopped him taking a nosedive in front of a tube train or jumping from a bridge. Despite rebuffing their well-meaning attempts to make sure he was safe and sane, their care was a slim lifeline but it was there.

As the day dawned, John was all for staying in bed. He was just weary, tired of the everyday fight to maintain sanity and keep his head above water. However, John Watson being John Watson he couldn’t and wouldn’t ignore the date. So he rose early, then showered, dressed and breakfasted quickly, aiming to be out of London before the crowds choked the tube or the buses. He was aiming to go alone, wanting to stay solitary. His plan, though, reckoned without the intervention of the annoying presence of the elder Holmes.

A sleek dark car was waiting by the kerbside as John exited 221b. He had eventually returned to the familiar flat with all his best friend’s things in, left as it had been, save for a clean fridge and an empty bedroom. John knew Mycroft was discreetly maintaining payments on the flat but said nothing about it. If Mycroft chose to expunge any guilt he might feel by making things easy for John, John was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He neither demanded acknowledgement of the donation nor did he force John to put up with his presence so John left well enough alone. However, it was obvious that he had been unable to stay away on this, the most poignant of days. The immaculate form that was Mycroft Holmes was leaning against the car, which for him could be classed as a casual pose despite resembling a GQ photoshoot. He was toying with his umbrella as if he belonged there. He probably did, John thought. The British Government did have a right to be standing on the roadside of a London street, after all.

“Mycroft…” John stopped in front of the man and huffed an irritated sigh.

“Please, John,” Mycroft wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I wish you would allow me this one small gesture.” He looked hesitant, obviously expecting a rebuff, but honestly John could not find it in his heart. He sighed again but it lacked rancour.

“I’m going to the grave and nowhere else. Today…” He could not go on. His voice failed him. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I always ho...honour my...fallen comrades, and...and he is no different.”

“I do understand. I had anticipated as much and I am also heading there, so if you wouldn’t mind company, we can share a car. I also thought a spot of lunch afterward but if you want to return home that can be arranged. However, there are a few people who would like to accompany us as well, should you be agreeable.” John realised Mycroft wasn’t alone in the car. He sighed when Findlay Murray leaned out the door and sketched a wave. Behind him, Alex Mitchinson leaned to give him a thumbs up. On the other side, John could see Jack Madoc in the shadows purposefully keeping back. “They contacted me," Mycroft was saying. "Via a roundabout route which was frankly frighteningly ingenious, and asked me if I still had contact with you. I had to say no, because we have not spoken in a long time, but they were.. _.very_ persuasive…”

“Told him I’d fucking break his legs unless he arranged this visit…” Madoc said. He wasn’t joking, even though his tone was light. John knew him well enough to realise he meant every word.

“Since when did you let some Scouse wanker intimidate you, Mycroft?” John wanted to know.

“Oh, never, John,” Mycroft replied airily. “However, he also told me you were avoiding making plans for today and that set my alarm bells ringing. I admit I was more worried by what they told me concerning your good self rather than being in the least intimidated by their empty threats.”

“Fuck off, they were not empty,” Madoc growled.

“I do assure you, Mr Madoc, while it may be that you are convinced of your own intentions, I am not intimidated in the least. Your words concerning John’s welfare, however, did disturb me and for that small motivation I am most grateful, which is why you still have your liberty following a tirade that should have earned you immediate incarceration pending investigation…” Mycroft smiled coldly, then turned to John with rather more warmth. “I am glad that you are still with us, John, you have to believe me.”

John regarded him for a moment, then allowed a small smile. “I do,” he said, gently. “One thing I do know, he wouldn’t have wanted me to remain enemies with you. So…” John extended his hand. Mycroft hesitated before shaking it but when he did it was sincere. “Shall we?” John indicated the car.

“By all means. I have taken the liberty to arrange some lunch for us at the Oak and Crown in the village, but if things get too much for you, please feel free to let me know....”

“No, that’s...that’s very generous, thank you. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” John got in and sat back as Mycroft slid in to the warm interior of the vehicle after him and rapped on the glass screen between them and the driver. The car began to move and they settled in to a surprisingly comfortable silence for the journey to the village near the Holmes family's country estate.

When they arrived it was to find the graveyard full of people. John frowned and held back but Mycroft shook his head. “Not my doing,” he reassured. “There is a war memorial here, and I have no influence to stop the proceedings,” he said. “Nor should I. This is a local event and my ancestors, mine and Sherlock’s, served in all the major wars.” He sounded quite proud. “Our great Grandfather served in Bomber Command during World War Two, his father in the Royal Flying Corps during the First World War. Great, Great Grandfather Bertie on mother’s side served in the Boer War and in India. I assure you I am the last person to interfere in the proper show of respect at these gatherings.” Mycroft did lead them a circuitous route down the paths though, circumventing the small knot of men and women sporting medals and bearing poppy wreaths who were gathered around the simple stone memorial. He raised a respectful hand to them as they passed.

The leaden sky overhead was still dry but depressing as they wove their way along the cinder paths between dense clumps of yews, finding the spot under the trees where Sherlock’s black granite gravestone was located. Madoc and the rest hung back, silently giving John his space. Even Mycroft indicated he should proceed without them, and John nodded gratefully and limped the last of the way there. Madoc watched his mate go, a frown pulling his brows together. “Bad business,” he said, voice low. Murray nodded.

“Really thought he’d found a reason to stay with us,” the Scot murmured sadly.

“What do you reckon?” Mitch asked. “Will he stick around now his best mate’s gone?”

“No idea, Mitch, no fucking idea,” Madoc said gloomily, catching Mycroft’s pained expression. “Sorry, mate. I know he was your brother but…”

“It’s quite alright,” Mycroft replied, cutting him off. “I too worry for the good doctor. I am keeping him under close scrutiny but I fear even my attempts to keep him safe could amount to nothing if John is determined. I hope for all our sakes that I can react quickly enough if such an incident presents itself.” He watched Murray wander off, something taking his interest a little way off, then dragged his attention back to the forlorn figure who had by now reached the graveside. “Dr Watson is nothing if not stubborn,” he observed. “If he gets an idea in his head, then nothing will dissuade him. We can but hope he finds something to...give him hope, as it were.”

 _I was so alone and I owe you so much…_ John came to a halt before the stone, the words he had uttered the last time he had visited still echoing in his mind. _Just one more miracle…Don’t. Be. Dead._ He bowed his head and sighed heavily. _That hadn’t happened, had it?_

“So, still...dead then,” he murmured, conversationally. “I dunno, Sherlock, you’re being a right git, keeping me waiting.” John sighed again. “I should stop coming here, you know. I mean… things are not going to get better are they? You’re gone. For whatever stupid reason, and it was stupid, Sherlock, nobody will convince me otherwise, no matter how noble you thought you were being. You didn’t have to...to jump…” John’s voice faltered. He breathed deeply again and sniffed. “I miss you, you daft sod. Come home, please? I’m...I’m just not sure how long...how long I can…” He had to stop. His eyes were welling and it was painful, damn it, physically painful to say the words. Abruptly he laid the flowers he had brought--he had made Mycroft stop at the florist’s shop in the village--down on the damp ground and stood, straightening his back and shoulders. He saluted smartly. Turning on his heel, he walked back to where the lads were standing waiting for him.

Murray had wandered away from the small knot of men, his attention caught by sudden movement under a nearby tree. A dark shadow passed just beyond the tree’s trunk, through the undergrowth. Murray stalked closer, ears straining for any indication that his quarry had seen him. When the hind end of a deer flashed through the greenery beyond the tree, its brown hide almost hidden by the dappled shadows of leaves and branches, white tail upended in alarm, Murray was unsurprised. He grinned, glad to see life in such a place of death. He stopped beneath the low bows, swallowed by the shadows beneath them, watching the place where the deer had gone. Pausing to look around and assess his surroundings— _old habits die hard,_ he thought—Murray realised that he could see the grave from his position but was shielded by the bushes in front of him. John could not see him. At that moment his foot cracked on something and he looked down, surprised to see a large amount of cigarette butts on the grass. He sniffed the air, the unmistakable aroma of smoke meeting his nostrils. Someone had been there recently, very recently. Kids probably, bunking off and hiding from the parents; it was probably a known spot to grab a quick fag without being found out. Murray grinned, remembering doing the same thing himself. He was about to leave when he saw the thing he had stepped on, a bright red pencil. He picked it up, realising that it was only the blunt end that had snapped. The two parts were still connected, but slightly bent. He pocketed it and went back to the others, where John was now waiting.

“Right, lads, we ready?” John asked and received nods of agreement, so he lead them all toward the memorial. The small knot of veterans had laid their wreaths, and were listening to the Vicar voicing something appropriate. The foursome stopped some way off, but still garnered curious looks from one or two of the veterans, but Madoc ignored them as the four friends gathered in their small knot. This time they all waited for John to begin. He glanced around at them, one after the other, then took a deep breath. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, without a trace of a tremor in his voice.

“Will Morstan,” Jack said. “Tom Heaney, Dan Hereford.”

“Liam Conlan,” Findlay added.

“Alex Fairburn,” Mitch offered.

They went through their list then, adding names from years previous, remembering them all. Mycroft stood by, respectfully silent. When the last name was said, the church clock struck the hour. Eleven o’clock. Madoc snapped “Atten...shun!” Each of them came smartly to attention as if the years hadn’t intervened, and they all saluted, then stood to observe the two minute silence. “At ease!” Madoc ordered when the allotted time had passed and they all stood down, rejoining Mycroft who lead the way silently out of the graveyard. The veterans watched them go.

The pub was filled with patrons, most notably more of the veterans from the churchyard as well as the obvious regulars. John elbowed his way to the bar and caught the bartender’s eye, asking if there was a table booked in the name of Holmes. He smiled and nodded and lead them through to the dining room and showed them to their seats.

“Your ritual is rather poignant, John,” Mycroft murmured. “But very fitting, all the same. I am...touched that you honoured Sherlock so. He wasn’t a soldier, after all.”

“Mycroft, you once said to me that most people blunder around London and all they see are streets and shops and cars. You said that if I went with Sherlock that I would see the battlefield and I did. In his own way, Sherlock _was_ a soldier. No matter his motives, he still fought for the truth. He still solved crimes and combated enemies, just like I did. I just did it with a scalpel and a gun, he did it with his mind, but nevertheless, he deserved to be included in our...ritual. He should be remembered for the man he was, and he was not a fraud.”

“I know how hard you campaigned to make the police review the cases and find him not guilty, and you won,” Mycroft said. “I might have helped a little but the motivation was yours. For that alone you are to be commended. You do him honour with every breath you take, Doctor. Take comfort in that.”

The lunch was a generous one, although they didn’t speak much. Other than Jack inviting John to stay with him for a few days he and Fin and Mitch chatted among themselves. John wasn’t in the mood for conversation and Mycroft was obviously not up to his usual erudite offerings. When one of the veterans from the church appeared by their table as they were finishing their coffee, it was Jack who acted as their spokesman.

“Scuse me for interuptin’, lads,” the old man said, well-polished medals in a bright row across his left breast. “I ‘ope I’m not disturbin’ you, but we saw you at the graveyard. The lads want to know what service you’re in and I drew the short straw.”

Jack grinned. “Were,” he replied, affably. “We’re all retired now. John and Findlay there were invalided out a couple of years ago, Mitch and I decided to retire this year. We’re all late of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

The old man nodded. “Jim Campbell, 4th Battalion, Royal Artillery. Me and the lads would like to know if we can invite you for a drink? All soldiers together?”

Jack smiled. “Jack Madoc,” he said as they shook hands. “Pleased to meet you, sir. We’d be happy to join you, wouldn’t we, lads?” He glanced around and saw the agreement on everyone’s faces and stood, following the old gent back to where his cronies were gathered around the bar. They spent the next hour absorbed in conversation and only when Mycroft tapped his watch at John did they down the dregs of their pints and make ready to leave.

“You’ve got an email address, right?” Murray dragged his pockets for something to write with and found the pencil he had stepped on. He grabbed a napkin from the bar and wrote the email address down that the man he had been chatting to had just given him. He thanked the old man—Albert—and stuffed the paper back in his pocket, but when he looked up he found John was staring at him.

“Fin, where did you get that?”

“Get what?”

“T.t.that pencil…” John’s voice was shaking.

“Why? I mean, it is nay special…”

“Where did you get it?” John’s voice sounded urgent.

“In the graveyard, by the tree we were standing next to while we were waiting for you.”

"The…?” John grabbed for the pencil and stared at it.

“Look, there were a lot of cigarette butts around, it was a den of sorts...Christ, John, it’s just something some kid dropped…”

“No, it isn’t.” John was scrutinising the pencil, carefully. “I’d know that pencil anywhere...You don’t believe me? You think I’m going nuts? Okay then, see that burn mark? Acid. He used it to poke at something in one of his experiments. It’s a 2b, Sherlock’s favoured grade of graphite, he says nothing else makes enough mark and anything softer wears down too fast. The brand, only bought in a small art shop around the corner from where we live. The end is stained brown and I’ll bet good money it shows up as blood…”

“Blood?” 

“Yes, blood. Sherlock stabbed someone with it once. It was the only weapon he had on him...It’s a sign...he dropped this for me…” 

“John…” Murray was concerned. His mate was staring at the pencil feverishly. Mycroft took that opportunity to take John’s arm and propel him gently to the car. Once inside, John looked beseechingly at the elder Holmes.

“Did you know?”

“Know what, John?” Mycroft said softly. “It’s a pencil. Some child probably dropped it.” Mycroft’s intense gaze settled on John’s own. John swallowed and something unspoken passed between them. John sighed heavily and pocketed the pencil.

“Sorry...sorry, you’re right…” he mumbled. “I’m...forgive me, Fin. I’m grasping at straws.”

“Nay problem, laddy. Understandable. Keep the damn thing, just stay safe,” he said gently. John nodded and they drove to the railway station in silence.

Once the men had gone, Mycroft turned to John. “Doctor Watson, if you will take a little advice, do not speak of this to anyone and keep your little...momento...safe and concealed.”

“It’s true then?”

“I have no idea, truly.” Mycroft gripped John’s shoulder firmly. John was surprised to note that his fingers were trembling slightly. “If it is, and at this moment it is only a very tenuous _if,_ then his safety will rely on our continued silence and your continued belief in his demise. Do not do anything to compromise that, John, whatever you do. I will begin some tenuous investigations, feelers, nothing more. If this is a sign, then he will get in touch with us, not the other way around, and knowing my dear brother only when it is the absolute right time and not before. Do not expect miracles, John. Years might go by yet. You must be both patient and wary. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” John nodded.

“How sure are you, John?”

“Around ninety eight percent?”

“Why?”

John held out the pencil. “Test the end for blood, then you’ll see why. Details, Mycroft. Sherlock doesn’t do things carelessly nor does he make mistakes. This wasn’t dropped. He left it for me to find. He knew I’d be there today of all days.”

“You’re so sure.”

“Yes. Test it for me, Mycroft. Find out. If that is blood on the end, I rest my case.”

“What good would it do?”

"Yes or no, I just need to know for sure. If the answer is negative, then I’ll mourn him and move on. If it’s positive, then I can wait, forever if need be.”

“Forever is a long time, John.”

“Forever is no time at all, Mycroft. Forever is what being stuck in Afghanistan feels like. This...this is merely a hiatus, nothing more.”

His phone binged with a text alert later that evening. Whatever facilities Mycroft had access to must be 24/7 because one word sat glaring at him from the screen. John sighed softly, then let the tears fall.

**Positive. MH**


	4. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conspiracy abounds. Sherlock returns. No more need be said really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how this hangs together. I've probably made glaring mistakes, (feel free to point them out if you find anything) and it doesn't really fit with chapter one but...It's the next chapter. I have no beta/editor any more. Oh, and it's a year out of date too.

_“John? John watson?” “_

_"Yes. Who is this? It’s…” John squinted at the clock and exhaled in annoyance. Only a few hours since he had managed to finally close his eyes. “This had better be good, I am knackered and not in the best mood. So who are you?”_

_"I’ve got a message for you…” The nasal voice sounded bored, as though reading the words from a card. “From a friend.”_

_“Message? What message?”_

_“Vatican cameos.”_

_All the sleepiness left John’s body as the adrenaline kicked in. He was sitting up, heart pounding, a cold sweat drenching him despite the autumn chill. “Who told you to say that? Who?”_

_“Just listen, Dr Watson. If you don’t, Major James Sholto will die…”_

 

——————————

 

The Anniversary of D-Day was marked by events, parades, wreath layings, coach journeys… John was familiar with the format; coach trip, march through a village somewhere, end up at a cemetery, listen to a sermon of remembrance, salute the fallen, lay a wreath, go to a local pub, get some food and have a bevvy with the lads afterward to catch up and reminisce about old times before returning home. Despite the predictable format, every commemoration, every wreath laying, every meeting with ex-comrades was individual, unique. Every year now there were fewer veterans, and the tragedy was that some they lost were younger than those who were left from the 1940s.

That didn’t stop John from hearing Sherlock’s voice in his head as he offered his own opinion. _So predictable, John, and so heavy with sentiment it’s a wonder the coach doesn’t collapse..._ Damn the man! Was this Sherlock’s legacy, the ability to summarize events in the flash of a succinct quip and the turn up of a mental collar…? This year, just in case anybody was listening, he would have to include Sherlock in their recitation of fallen comrades, on Mycroft’s insistence. Following the results from the pencil Murray had found at the graveyard the previous year*, it was pretty clear Sherlock was not in fact dead, although there was no telling where he was or what he was doing or even (despite John’s determination not to think about it) how much danger he was in. Mycroft had intimated that it might take years. Dismantling a whole criminal network wasn’t a quick fix.

Meeting up with the lads was just what the doctor—namely him—ordered. They had his back, they would keep him going, take his mind off the anniversaries and focus his thoughts on something more positive. He and Findlay Murray began to meet up once a month, for a drink and a catch up. Murray was talkative but not overly demonstrative, comfortable to be around. John of course dismissed the idea that anything had come from the pencil the man had found. “Me being hopeful,” was his excuse. It seemed to work; Fin had swallowed it and it had even worked on the cynical Madoc. As another summer came around, Fin started asking what John’s plans were for Remembrance Day. This particular year was peppered with opportunities to meet up. Not only was it the 100th anniversary of the outbreak of the 1st world war, it was the 70th anniversary of D Day. The Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, past and present, were organising their own tributes; several trips, a shed load of wreath laying and a few fundraisers as well. John was invited to attend more than one of them.

“So, which shindigs are you signed up for?” Findlay asked. “I thought I might go to Caen with the veterans. Ma grandfather was there, ye ken.”

“He was? You never said before.”

“Nay reason,” Fin replied. “He was though. I’ve got his medals.”

“You’ve got your own,” John reminded him with a smile.

“Aye, I know. I’ll wear them too.”

“Christ, Fin, you’ll fall over. The combined weight of those gongs...they’ll never let you through customs.”

Fin chuckled and downed the remains of his pint. “Aye, well, rumour has it Sholto’s going…”

At first, John had thought he was hearing things. Shock made him pause. “Never!” he said, softly. “What, even after…?”

“Aye, even after that.” Fin watched his friend. “You miss him.” It was said as a statement, not a question.

John glanced up sharply. “Yes, I do. He was a good man. He didn’t deserve the shit they threw at him.”

“Aye, I know. Still, somebody had to pay. It’s the way of things.”

“I know. I know. Doesn’t make it any more palatable though.”

That night, lying in his bed, John turned his thoughts to what he remembered of Major James Sholto; a soft voice in the dark, but a voice that could turn to thunder during training. James had military bearing of course, a commanding stature; the man had a solidly muscled frame that radiated strength. His sharp eyes never missed a trick; his gaze could be warm and welcoming or hard as flint. He had been...more than a friend to John. They had been close; closer than two ranking officers should have been. Sholto was a clever and erudite conversationalist, compassionate, and a bit of a seducer too. John had been happy to be the seduced, despite the dangers. James was a sweet person, off the parade ground. If they had been caught, there would have been grave consequences but it filled a need in both men that could not be found elsewhere at that precise time. Stolen moments, no more, and the occasional leave where they would meet up for a couple of nights in an anonymous hotel as far as possible from anybody who knew them.

John was firmly not gay and was quick to say as much, but in truth, he had to admit it was more a defensive reaction honed over years of keeping his and Sholto's relationship quiet. John really had no label for himself. Over the last year he had time to examine himself, and had to admit that he had resisted Sherlock for so long not because of some misguided desire to hang on to heterosexuality but because Sherlock was Sherlock; all six foot of annoying thoughtless selfish toddler, one who needed to realise John had feelings and needs and was not to be ignored, belittled, neglected or abandoned like some toy he had grown bored with. In the end, Sherlock had done precisely that, albeit for reasons he considered important. John had to believe that Sherlock had done the deed because he had some overarching important reason. When he returned, there would be consequences, plain and simple. John would clout him first and then listen to his explanation. Sholto was...important, and John had been more than devastated when it happened. Not unlike losing his best friend really. John had not wanted to feel that way again, ever, and when he did...well, he had to admit he had maybe taken Sherlock’s death harder and felt angrier about it as a result.

The business with Sholto had been a fairly textbook thing to do with new recruits really. It shouldn’t have gone so wrong. A unit of new soldiers under Sholto’s command had gone out on patrol in a routine maneuver that every new soldier underwent at some point after training. The fact that it had gone so spectacularly wrong had not been Sholto’s fault but in the eyes of the young men’s parents he had been their commander and had been wrongly cleared of their deaths. The prosecution had said he had lead them down the wrong road into hostile territory. Sholto maintained that their intel had not indicated any such thing. He had received threats on his life and enough hate mail to make him retreat into obscurity for the rest of his life. It had been neither fair nor preventable, as far as John could see. The military tribunal had cleared him of making the wrong decision but he had opted for a discharge. The hints were that Sholto was too hot to handle, the bad press and negative feeling surrounding him too much for the army to keep him, despite the voluntary nature of his exiting the service.

It had been seven years since it had happened. John wondered why it was now that he was attempting to come out of his self-imposed exile. Of course, when the initial debacle had happened John had tried to support him but Sholto distanced himself, and in a brief heartbreaking letter sent to John less than a month after the tribunal he had insisted that it would damage John’s career if he came out on James’ side. James had said he would not let that happen and vanished. Eventually of course, he had sent John a long letter of apology and explanation, pouring his heart out and virtually begging John to forgive him. He was expecting someone to come after him and did not want any bad feeling between them if the worst should happen. John had taken pity on the man and sent a forgiving reply, but had heard nothing in return until a year later, after his own brush with death. James had risked exposure in order to see him, wanting to make sure he was recovering. John was never sure that it hadn’t been a fever dream, until James sent another letter shortly before John had met Sherlock. In it, he had expressed his relief that John was alive and his hopes that he would find a life outside of the army. Less than a month later, Sherlock had come into his life.

**0000000000**

“Morning, John. I trust you are well.” Mycroft poured them both tea and then took his seat across the desk from his brother’s friend.

“Very well, thank you. Any news?” After finding the pencil, Mycroft had done some intricate and delicate investigative work to confirm the existence of his wayward brother. It had taken months but eventually the news had come that Sherlock was still breathing, moving around Europe on his own, dismantling the criminal network his enemy had set up.

“India,” Mycroft answered succinctly. “Advised the police anonymously, case closed. However, I gather that was not your main purpose in wanting to see me?” As ever, Mycroft did not waste words. The least said the better.

“Major James Sholto,” John said. “You know the name?”

“Yes, of course. Quite a tragedy, if I recall. Ten fine young men dead, the flower of English manhood, or some such sentimental rubbish spouted by the tabloids. They were soldiers. They all signed on the dotted line, they wrote a blank cheque to the British Government, and gave their lives for Queen and Country, as all good soldiers do. It is a pity that the press has to muddy the waters with emotional blackmail. I believe one was the son of an MP and God help us, we have to rake everything across hot coals and condemn the leaders.”

“It wasn’t deemed to be his fault; the tribunal found him blameless.”

“Nevertheless,” Mycroft said, leaving the statement hanging. “The Public require their pound of flesh and as ever the British Press makes itself out to be the Voice of the People, not to mention Judge, Jury and Executioner.” Mycroft sighed dramatically. “So, he was a friend of yours.”

“A good friend, yes.”

“Obvious. You are very defensive of him.”

“Naturally. He and I… we were...close.”

“And you want something from me with regards to him?”

“Again, yes. Apparently he’s coming out of retirement to visit France for the D Day celebrations. I have no idea why he should want to but I want him kept safe.”

“Safe from what? Or should that be from whom?”

“He still gets death threats, Mycroft. How do you not know that?”

“Oh, I know. However, those threats are anonymous. The police have never been able to pin it on anyone.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re not real.”

“I am also aware of that.”

“So?”

“John, much as I have no wish to alienate you, I think even I would have difficulty keeping the man safe from a threat we cannot identify. I have been in the security services far longer than you and protected people under higher threat than he. Alas, I have to admit that presenting himself at a commemorative event is not the way to stay safe.”

“Please, Mycroft, you are the only one who might have half a chance of actually doing anything…”

Mycroft frowned. “You do not resort to pleas as a rule, John, so this man must mean a lot to you.”

“Yes, yes, he really does. Yes...we were...more than friends, once. Look…” John paused, collecting his thoughts. “I can’t compel you, obviously, but…”

“John, let me stop you there. No, as you so astutely observe you cannot _compel_ me, but I in my turn have no reason to deny you. We have a month, do we not? I shall look into it, I cannot promise anything further.”

0000000000000

“John...there’s been _mutterings,_ ” Fin Murray murmured across the table a few days before the event. “Have ye heard anything on the grapevine?” John stared at Fin over his pint and frowned. “Keep yer voice down, ye ken,” Murray murmured. “I’ve been hearing things from some of the lads we used tay know. None of it is good.”

“What kind of things?”

“Main thing that disturbs me is what they’re saying about the top brass.” Murray took another pull and stared at the table. When he looked back up at John his eyes were troubled. “Rumour is that Sholto found something out he should’na. That he was silenced, John. That he should have died with those lads in his command, all because he knew something; something that would have implicated Central Command.”

“Like what? We never noticed anything when we were serving, did we?”

“Not individually no, but I’ve been thinking.”

“What about?”

“Oh, stuff that happened when we were there. Little things on the surface, maybe, but they add up to a bigger picture.”

“Fin, who have you been speaking to?”

“Madoc and I met up with Tommy Watkins and Sean Leigh, you remember them? Watkins got in touch with Madoc last month, said he wanted to meet, said he'd stumbled on something big. Sean’s still serving but Tommy came home last year with his leg gone. He told us he was sure Major Prentice was on the take.”

“Prentice? Bloody Hell, Fin, he was decorated. Not to mention...he was a good man. I knew him quite well. I saw how compassionate he was… No, no, really, this has to be wrong.”

“So? Does’na stop him making a bit on the side, as it were. Does’na stop anyone really, if the incentive is there.”

“Fin, this is… _so_ not good. What was Tommy saying Prentice did?”

“Said it was the surface of something bigger. Sean was apparently asked to turn a blind eye to a few shipments leaving the base. Each time Prentice was the officer in charge. Sean feels sure he was fiddling the inventory. When he said as much to Tommy, Tom remembers Prentice ordering him to drive some supplies off base but off the books, as it were. He said it was to help the locals, goodwill thing, ye ken, but Tommy said he thought the men who met the waggon were not local at all. He also says he saw one of the boxes that was being off-loaded because the tarp slipped. He was sure it was a ammo box. Sean said he heard Prentice and Sholto in a shouting match the night before Sholto and his patrol went out and got shot up. It was too coincidental, so far as Sean was concerned, but he didn’t dare say anything. He told Tommy and then they both told Madoc and me.”

John drained his pint thoughtfully. “I’ll let Mycroft know. If anyone will be able to find something out, he will.”

“Aye, well, you tak’ care, laddie. It all sounds like a bad business. You might want to tell his nibs this as well. Tommy heard Prentice mention a name once or twice. Just a name, ye ken, nothing more. Tommy swears he has no idea of the identity of the man beyond that. He never met him, but...”

“But?”

“Tommy said someone called him a few weeks ago, said he had a job for him, if he was interested. The caller knew he was invalided out, knew he was down on his luck, asked if he fancied earning a ton for a ten minutes’ graft now and again. Strictly off the books, unidentifiable notes. All he had to do was make a phone call when asked, then call back with the reply, word for word. Tommy said he’d give it a go, and he made the call. Asked the question, got the answer, called the man back, told him. Sure enough, an envelope arrived through his letterbox the day after, one hundred quid inside. He said the call was innocuous enough; he had to ask how the weather was in Zurich and the reply was fine with a little fog on the high ground.”

“Code, obviously.”

“Aye, laddy, I know. I’m nay daft, ye ken…” Murray shook his head, exasperated. “Point is, the man who called let slip the name of the man he was working for. Turns out it was the same name as the one Tommy had heard Prentice bandying about.”

“And?” John watched Findlay’s expression carefully. “What was the name?”

Fin’s eyes flicked left, right and focused somewhere over John’s shoulder for a moment. Then he turned, slowly, and John recognised a deliberate sweep of the neighbourhood to check for anyone taking undue interest in them. Seeming satisfied, Fin turned back and murmured one word. John frowned and nodded, then went back to normal conversation; each team’s chances in the Six Nations, Fin’s nieces, where he was going for Remembrance Day. They took their leave of each other shortly thereafter.

——————————-

John took the tube home in thoughtful mood. He was disturbed by what Fin Murray had revealed. More disturbed by the fact that Fin seemed to believe it. He sent a swift text to Mycroft.

**Need to speak with you urgently. JW**

He was walking home, striding briskly down the Marylebone Road when he caught sight of someone following him. At first he shrugged it off, thinking he was being jumpy, but the man in question stayed back, stopping conveniently when John stopped to glance in a shop window. The man definitely paused when he did. John frowned, and went inside the shop. He fished in his wallet and smiled grimly. Flashing the warrant card, fingers casually covering the photo on the ID, he announced conspiratorially “DI Lestrade, Scotland Yard, I’m following someone and I would very much appreciate it if you could let me out your back door...” #

Once outside in the alleyway, John knew he didn’t have a great deal of time. He grabbed his phone and speed dialled. When the voice answered he snapped “Mycroft, shut up and listen. I need your help. I’m being followed. If it isn’t your doing, would you please send a car?”

“Followed? Do you have a description?”

“IC1* male, five eleven, short blond hair, didn’t get much beyond blue jeans and a black bomber jacket. I’m in the alley behind Frazier’s Estate Agents…”

“I know, I have your GPS signal, moving South, toward the High Street. Once you exit the alley, turn right and cross the road.”

The sound of a door opening made John start running, without looking back to see who was there. He turned right and dashed over the road, dodging cars that honked their horns at him. “Where now, Mycroft?” he huffed. Memories of running through London’s back alleys and thoroughfares hard on Sherlock’s heels came vividly to mind. Heart racing, adrenalin pumping, John felt the old thrill of the chase returning, despite the fact he could have done without being the quarry.

“Turn left into the arcade coming up and go into Harrington’s Outfitters.”

“Harrington’s…”

“Ask for Mr Turner.”

“Mr Turner?”

“Then do as you are told. Now hang up.”

John hung up and turned left. He opened the door to the tinkle of an old fashioned bell and closed the door rapidly behind him. A middle-aged man surveyed him in mild disapproval. “Mr Turner please?” John asked.

Instantly the man stood and beckoned. “Follow me, sir,” he said, and disappeared into the back of the shop, through a door. Puzzled, John followed. Inside, there was a staircase. “Up you go,” the man said. “I’ve never seen you before. Do you know the route?” John shook his head. “Go up and then through the door marked Staff Only at the top on the right, it leads through three rooms all joined together. Go through them all and at no time look out the windows. You will come out on a landing. Take the staircase back down to street level. You will see a door marked cellar. Go through it but turn right, and leave by the street door. There will be a car waiting.” He disappeared into the shop again and shut the door on John. There was a muffled “Hurry up!” so John hurried.

The rooms at the top were dusty and mostly unused. Dim light filtered through dark curtains, leaving just enough to see the narrow corridor through storage boxes in the first room, but the other rooms were uncluttered. John wondered briefly who the man was that Mycroft obviously had in his employ. John felt like something out of a bad spy movie as he quickly followed the instructions and found himself going through the door marked cellar. There was a street door to the right and he opened it cautiously, to see a dark sleek car parked outside, the backdoor open and a familiar umbrella visible. John shut the door behind him and darted inside the car. It moved off as soon as he had the door shut, and blended seamlessly into the early afternoon traffic.

“John,” Mycroft said genially, one eyebrow arched.

“Mycroft. Thanks.” John sank back, relief evident.

“We picked up your tail. He is denying everything of course.”

“I saw him, Mycroft, I’m not stupid.”

“Of course not, John. He was following you, I’m certain of that. He asked Mr Taylor where you were and of course, Mr Taylor denied all knowledge of you being there. My men picked him up seconds later.”

“So he really was following me?”

“Yes, he was. So, tell me, what has happened that makes you interesting to the CIA?”

“CIA? Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I recognised him. He’s an operative for the Americans. I recruited him, for goodness sake. He wouldn’t tell me why he was following you so I suggested I contact his superiors and find out directly. They were all very accommodating, when they found out they were targeting one of my operatives.”

“Since when did I become one of your operatives?”

“Since they began following you.” Mycroft smiled at him. “Seriously, John, something you have recently done or said to someone is of interest and flagged you up. Now who?”

“I was talking to my friend Murray. Findlay Murray. Jesus, Mycroft, if they’re following me, they’ll be following him. Is he in danger? He was talking to me about a Major in the unit we were attached to in Afghanistan. Prentice. Some other men have recently told Murray that Prentice was on the take…”

“Major Alexander Prentice?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but he has come up in conversation, recently. I’ve been having him watched. I seconded an SAS unit to his brigade recently. One of them is watching him for me. Prentice is part of something else, something bigger I fear. The interest displayed in you would indicate the Americans are also concerned.”

“You should talk to Tommy Watkins and Sean Leigh. Sean is apparently still serving…What?”

“Are we talking about Private Sean James Leigh?” Mycroft frowned at John.

“Yes, although I wouldn’t swear to knowing his middle name.”

Mycroft sighed, regretfully. “I have to inform you, John, he was killed in action, two days ago.”

“Oh, God, no. Sean? Damn it all. Mycroft, they got to him too, they must have. I think this is to do with Sholto, too. Apparently Sean heard Prentice and Sholto having a shouting match, the night before Sholto and his team were hit…”

“John, we need to move carefully. Where Sholto is concerned I have to tell you that as of the present time, we have had no contact with the man. We cannot find him.”

“What, none at all? How can you not manage to find him?”

“Quite simply, John. He is nowhere to be found. We also have other concerns. There is a major terrorist plot that has been hinted at by several of my...contacts. Some prominent people are currently being watched for any sign of out-of-character behaviour. Among them is a peer of the Realm, Sebastian Moran...What?”

“Moran, that’s the name Fin gave me. Same person who asked Tommy Watkins to do jobs for him.”

“Careless of him, to leave his name.”

“Well, apparently he didn’t but his operative let it slip. Obviously can always say the man was lying, just giving someone’s name to make it sound legit, but it’s a bit of a coincidence.”

“I do not believe in coincidence, John. The Universe is rarely so lazy. So what was this job?”

“Phone a number, ask a question, phone with a reply…£100 for each call. Obviously in code too. Had to ask what the weather was like in Zurich, the reply being fine but with a little fog on the high ground. Sounds like something out of the Ipcress File.”

“Yes, well, Prentice is obviously small fry, a facilitator, someone who can be discarded at will once his usefulness is over. Moran is one of the big boys. I have a suspicion that Sholto knows something which makes him a target. At this moment, I have no idea of his whereabouts. Major Sholto has dropped off the proverbial map."

“Look, Mycroft, please can we pick Murray up? He’ll be at Kings Cross. He gets the train back to Edinburgh in about....” he checked his watch “...half an hour.”

“I’ll have someone meet him. What can I tell him, John?”

“Tell him? Oh, so he knows this is safe, huh? Okay, just tell him John says April Fool, 2006. He’ll know it’s me.”

Mycroft took them to the Diogenese and ordered dinner to be fetched to his rooms for them both. He then lead them to his own suite, indicating that John should sit down. Mycroft watched him collapse into a chesterfield chair by the fire as he poured two single malts and handed one over to his brother’s best friend. “Someone is guarding 221B, so we shall be the first to know if anybody visits,” Mycroft informed his guest. His phone buzzed. The caller ID said Anthea so he pressed the screen to admit the call. He listened intently for a few moments and then said “Find him, if you can.” Turning to John he said “I’m sorry, John. Mr Murray was not at King’s Cross. My people currently have no idea of his whereabouts.”

John’s face fell. “Jesus, do you suppose…? Oh bloody hell, now what?”

“My people are working on it. There’s little we can do. Keep your phone open. If he calls, get him to tell you a landmark, anything we can pinpoint. I can have someone retrieve him. Better still, do you have his mobile number? I can probably get someone on my team to track him by GPS.”

“He might already be…”

“John, I don’t have to tell you to stay calm. Until we have anything further, unfounded speculation is both unproductive and detrimental. I need you focused, Captain Watson. We have work to do. Mr Murray’s phone number, if you please?”

John nodded and downed the spirits in one go, then fumbled with his phone and brought up the contacts list. He read the number off to Mycroft who texted it on to someone in his team. John took a deep breath. “I know what you’re saying. It’s just… it’s been a while, taking command, you know? That was...before. Almost seems like another life.”

“One that you have not forgotten, John. Just like an elephant…”

“Thanks for that image, Mycroft.” John was rather surprised when Mycroft smiled.

“So tell me,” Mycroft asked. “What is supposed to have transpired in your regiment? Sholto’s misadventure was spectacularly reported but romanticised to the point of ridiculousness. What happened on the patrol, for instance?”

“There is no way that you do not know…”

“I know second hand, John. I read the report. You were there, however, and actually being present in Afghanistan does give you the edge on describing the incident. Please, share it with me from your perspective.”

“As far as I know nothing should have gone wrong. All the intel said that it was a routine patrol, the chance of hostiles in the area was minimal. Everyone said it was like they’d been targeted, but okay, let’s leave aside the speculation for now, I know you want facts. Only thing is, I don’t have many. Rumours at the time had it that there was some major corruption going on somewhere, but they were mutterings, nothing more. We discussed everything in whispers over coffee and gossip in the mess tent. The rumour mill was quelled fairly rapidly by everyone high up and the people who were perpetuating the rumours were jumped on. It’s tantamount to treason after all, casting doubts on those in command in time of war. Those mutterings began to have more substance though; a few things went missing, supplies were short for no reason. Things got misdirected, lost to other bases, just didn't turn up. Inventory is a shite job at the best of times. Some people blamed it on computer glitches, hacking by the enemy, but there was nothing provable. In my honest opinion, I think someone got greedy and then careless. Occasional bits always go missing, or stuff gets written up wrong in the inventory, it happens, it’s human error. Other things... “ John sighed. “There were a couple of inventory problems with medical supplies, a few bits of equipment that were supposed to arrive but didn’t, although the inventory said they had. Fin reported it to me and Prentice, and Prentice said he’d look into it, but I never found out what happened. I remember I took a look at the inventory myself but I had no idea what Fin was talking about. I never thought to ask him about it. The Sholto incident happened and then I got shot and…Oh…” John stopped, his train of thought running out of control, threatening to derail. “Oh, fuck it to hell and back…”

“I see where your mind is going and I have to concur. It is very possible that the inventory was doctored and you may well also have been targeted, John. You and Sholto were close, were you not? Did he express his doubts to you, his grievance with Prentice?”

“Not in so many words, but I knew he wasn’t happy.”

“However, anyone who knew about Sholto and Prentice would likely know about Sholto’s relationship with you, surely?”

“We kept it very, very quiet, seriously. Nobody knew otherwise we’d have been summarily Court Martialed and dismissed, dishonourable discharge, you know?”

“Yes, I do know. However, the fact remains that it looks as though Sholto was targeted and removed, possibly you too without knowing it. So somebody knew. Somebody high up. Don’t worry, John, we shall find out who. If there is one thing I cannot abide it is a traitor.”

“I couldn’t give a damn about traitors, Mycroft. I want to know if Murray is safe, not to mention my other mates.”

Mycroft checked his phone and smiled grimly. “As we speak, John, your remaining cronies are being rounded up and interviewed. I am reliably informed your friend Madoc was less than appreciative of my efforts…” John allowed himself a grim smile. Jack Madoc wouldn’t take kindly to being kidnapped, if he was any judge of Mycroft’s methods. “We also have Mitchinson, Black, and Sinclair. One moment…” He answered his phone and rose from his chair, wandering out of earshot for a moment. John watched the back of his head, the set of his shoulders. When he dropped the phone into his pocket, his expression was strained. “I’m sorry, John…”

“What? Mycroft, what’s happened?”

“We cannot pick up Murray’s phone on GPS. Either it is damaged or switched off. CCTV apparently shows Murray walking onto the station concourse and then detouring back out and into a nearby cafe, but he never emerges from that cafe. There is no CCTV coverage for the rear of the property…”

“So he might have gone out the back way?”

“Likely but the CCTV does not pick him up emerging from the alleyway. It emerges onto a main street at either end and it doesn’t look like Murray left the area, certainly not on his own two feet.”

“Murray was being followed. That must be why he went back out of the station and went to a cafe. He never does that. He makes the 16.45 train, and he left me at 15.30. He would have been in enough time to get back and get the train but there was no reason for him to want a cafe. Why go back out? There are cafes on the concourse if he’d wanted a drink. He must have sussed that he was being followed, Mycroft.”

“Quite possible, John. However, there is no means by which we can locate him.”

“Damn it. So...I can’t believe if Murray knew he was being followed that he would simply leave by the back way. He would know that they would be likely to try cutting him off there…”

“There were a couple of likely vehicles parked in the vicinity that we are running checks on, but so far nothing has shown up.”

"Why on earth didn't he try to get in touch?"

"Maybe he had no time, maybe he thought it would draw attention to you too."

“God, why now? We could do with your brother…” Mycroft smiled grimly to that and said nothing. “Wait a mo,” John said, thoughtfully. “If Murray didn’t exit into the street then he went another way. Either up or down. Mycroft, does the cctv cover the roof?”

“I can enquire.”

“My guess is, he’s either holed up somewhere in the building, or he went up, across the rooftops, or he went down, into the sewers. If he calls, they could pick up on his location, so he won’t. Murray is ex-forces. He has survival training and he isn’t daft. He’s been on enough recon missions, enough surveillance jobs, to know what to do. He’s disabled but he doesn’t usually let it get in his way, mobility wise.”

“Assuming he is still at liberty, then all we can do is await a call. I can get my people into the building but finding Murray may prove difficult.”

“Do it, Mycroft. You need to get the place checked out. Murray must be somewhere.” Mycroft had seated himself before his computer and was checking emails. He frowned and started tapping keys. “What?” John asked.

“Anthea has emailed me to say that It seems the plates from the vehicles we suspected have not flagged anything untoward. However, we ran the plates from all the vehicles in the area that we could see. Two cars have flagged up as on a list of vehicles attributed to certain persons of interest.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, John. Namely two terror suspects that we have yet to bring in because we are waiting for them to lead us to their commander.”

“Right, so...What happens now then? Do you know who they are?”

“Oh yes, we know their identities. We suspect they have been plotting something for some time. The question is, what? Anti-terrorism Brigade have them on radar but we have, as yet, no link to any group. There is a possibility they are targetting the Crown, which explains my interest, but we have nothing concrete yet.”

“Connected with this business Murray was talking about?”

“It certainly looks a likely candidate, yes.” Mycroft paused as if in thought, then he looked up at John and smiled. “I suggest you get some rest. This might take a while. I shall call you if anything happens. Please avail yourself of my second bedroom, John. It has an ensuite if you need it.”

John stood and nodded, squared his shoulders and made his way to find some much-needed rest. At some point, John’s phone buzzed and he woke blearily to find that it was full dark. He fumbled it and hit the key to answer.

“John? John watson?” The voice at the end of the phone was male, obviously disguised.

“Yes. Who is this? It’s…” John squinted at the clock and exhaled in annoyance. Only a few hours since he had managed to finally close his eyes. “This had better be good, I am knackered and not in the best mood. So who are you?”

“I’ve got a message for you…” The nasal-sounding voice sounded bored, as though reading the words from a card. “From a friend.”

“Message? What message?”

“Vatican cameos.”

All the sleepiness left John’s body as the adrenaline kicked in. He was sitting up, heart pounding, a cold sweat drenching him despite the autumn chill. “Who told you to say that? Who?”

“Just listen, Dr Watson. If you don’t, Major James Sholto will die…”

**0000000000000**

John barrelled out into the living area to find Mycroft still up, sitting at his computer. Mycroft did not startle, but he looked sharply up as John dashed in and frowned. “John, what seems to be the problem?”

“I’ve just had a phone call.”

“From whom?”

“I don’t bloody know but someone is going to die unless we follow the instructions I have just been given.”

“What instructions?”

“We need to go to the underground station under the Houses of Parliament, now, tonight.”

“Under the House? To my knowledge there isn’t one.”

“Well, I am reliably informed that there is. So we go, now. Otherwise there will be deaths and one of them might be your brother.”

“How on earth do you deduce that?”

“Vatican cameos,” John said, and watched Mycroft’s face go stiff with shock.

 

**00000000000000**

 

“Your bloody brother,” John said pointedly. “Nobody else knows that code apart from you, me and him. So...unless you’ve told it to someone else, that means Sherlock is out there, on this case and not in Bloody India any more. We need to follow the instructions I have just been given or Murray and Sholto and possibly Sherlock as well, they are going to die and I am not about to let that happen. So?” Mycroft simply stood there and stared, eyes losing focus for a moment. “Mycroft? We need to move...” John’s patience had never been thinner.

“I need to make a call. Forgive me, John. Please,” he said gently. “Do bear with me. The threat is real, I understand that.” Mycroft’s finger was flying over the phone keys as he spoke.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Mobilise the troops.”

 

**00000000000000**

 

Mycroft returned looking grim. “All set,” he said simply and lead the way out to the car. After a terse word with the driver the car was on its way and Mycroft turned toward John and regarded him with a slight frown drawing his brows together. “Apparently there is a station, but it was never opened,” he explained. “My people tell me that Sumatra Road was built but was abandoned. There is a branch line that will reach it, but access tunnels will be faster. I am seriously worried, John. There is a late session in the House tonight, almost all the MPs will be voting on a very important anti-terrorism bill. Were terrorists to strike now, it would be catastrophic. Extra security has been drafted in but… The station was...overlooked. It is not on any extant map...”

“And if their attempt works, whatever it does, it would be a huge embarrassment to your department, wouldn’t it? Whatever your department is…” John shook his head.

Mycroft sighed. “John, whatever else you think of me, believe me that embarrassment is the least of my worries right now. If what I suspect to be true is proved to be so, then the consequences…” Mycroft exhaled softly.

“Then we have to solve this one, Mycroft, and soon. Come on, you’re always saying you’re the smarter one.”

Mycroft’s slight frown and accompanying silence had John on tenterhooks, itching to get a move on. The elder Holmes seemed to suddenly snap out of whatever he had been contemplating as his phone beeped. “Ah, the troops,” Mycroft murmured as he consulted his phone. “It would seem that _Thunderbirds Are Go_.”

A mad giggle escaped John then, gripped as he was by the adrenaline rush and the thought that they might actually do this, succeed in the face of whatever threat lay in wait. The old feelings were rushing over him again and he felt himself rising to the challenge. "Mycroft, you and popular culture really do not mix, you know that?"

"Oh, on the contrary, John. In this case a reference to International Rescue is highly appropriate, wouldn't you agree?"

John rolled his eyes. "That would make you Lady Penelope and me Parker then, would it?"

Mycroft merely smiled.

**0000000000000**

They got out of the car approximately half a mile from Westminster and were met by a couple of members of Mycroft's suited security. A brief word with them confirmed that their back up was on the way but had hit a delay; a car accident blocking the road. John and Mycroft exchanged a glance at that, but Mycroft dismissed it. “Sometimes it is too easy to see conspiracy in logistical problems, John,” he said. “Most likely nothing more than a random, albeit opportune, event. No sense in waiting for them, they will be with us shortly.”

They proceeded through staff corridors, down old spiralling stairs and along access tunnels, emerging onto a tube station platform that, on paper at least, did not exist. “This it?” John asked, glancing both ways down the tunnels. “Nothing here.”

“I know.” Mycroft looked tense.

“You don’t know, do you?” John checked his watch. “You really do not know…”

“At this precise moment, John, I am afraid to say I do not.”

“Well, we haven’t got much time…”

“John, exactly what was your message?”

“Just that we needed to get to the Tube beneath the House before eleven. That was it.”

“You originally said tube _station_ , not tube.” Mycroft frowned. “In that direction,” he gazed east, “the tunnel must run underneath Parliament.”

“We need to follow it then.”

“Quite possibly. I shall have my operatives do a sweep.”

“That’ll take too long. Look, I’m going now. Let your operatives catch me up.”

“John…”

“No time. You’d better get gone too. Can’t risk the real British Government as well as the ones who think they know what’s going on. Get yourself somewhere safe.”

“There are dozens of reasons why I should stop you, Captain Watson. You are only one man, for one thing, and you have no idea who or what you are facing down there. If you fail, John, I suspect there will be nowhere left that is safe.”

“I know. But what else can we do? No time, Mycroft.” John checked his watch. “Ten forty, and you know what I mean. Call up a helicopter and fly to Scotland...I don’t know, just… you ARE the bloody Government, Mycroft. You have a duty to remain safe. Now go.” Captain Watson was suddenly brooking no argument. John walked briskly to the end of the platform and flicked on a torch, sweeping it along the track. He jumped down as carefully as he could and began to walk, not looking back. He did not see Mycroft watch him go with a look of deep respect in his eyes.

John walked cautiously, keeping between the rails, trying to see in the gloom. The track curved annoyingly, so he wasn’t able to see too far ahead. He passed under a huge air duct, sweeping his torch upward, catching sight of...something, attached to the walls. He stifled a gasp as he realised, those were explosive packages. A sudden sound up ahead drew his attention. There was a light up bobbing about. He turned off the torch and walked carefully on, his eyes adjusted enough to see a lone carriage sitting in solitary state about 50 yards away. Voices. He could hear voices. John completed the journey at a half crouch, keeping his head down. The back door of the coach was open, and the voices, although muffled, were still audible.

“Bastard!” That was loud and familiar. Fin!

“Oh, do shut up.” Cultured, bored, and a bit familiar. _Was that Moran?_ And then a voice John had not heard in years spoke up, a cultured sensible voice, reasoned and calm. Sholto.

“Sebastian, you will never get away with this. This is beginning to resemble a very bad spy movie. Evil villain traps victims in carriage that is about to blow up...This will not do what you want it to. I’m not…”

“Fucking shut your mouth!” The voice was almost bored, condescending. “You have no idea, James. This...This is exactly what will work, and frankly I am loving the film noir absurdity of it all. However, I am not wasting any more time explaining. You’ll die here and what you know dies with you and that’s an end of it. I doubt they’ll be able to identify your bodies when the dust has settled. If they find them. You’ll be under tons of rock.” There was a chuckle then, a satisfied sound. “If they do find your remains, well, I’m sure there will be many people willing to scapegoat James Sholto for the terror plot that demolished the bloody government, hm?”

John had reached the carriage, standing close to the end of it, glancing around to look down the side of it, checking for any more people Moran might have lurking but it looked like they were alone. A hand suddenly clamped, hard and painful, over John’s mouth and he struggled for a moment with a sick dread in his stomach that he’d missed someone, until, that is, a familiar pair of green eyes were staring into his from inches away. _Sherlock bloody holmes!_  John stilled and the hand lifted, allowing him to breath again, and a glove-clad finger lifted unnecessarily to his lips. Sherlock dragged him back around the side of the carriage just as Moran stepped through the door. John brought his gun up and took a steadying breath.

“Don’t move, Moran.” Sherlock called. With a snarl, Moran pivoted, bringing his own gun up, following the sound. John did not hesitate, and pulled the trigger. The noise reverberated massively through the tunnel as the man was hurled up and back, falling like a ragdoll onto the rails. “That...wasn’t the wisest thing you could have done…” Sherlock dashed to where Moran had fallen. “Damn it all, John, I forgot how good you are. Through the head, center of his eyebrows. He’s dead.”

“What…? Bloody buggering fuck, Sherlock. He was going to kill you, me, us...”

“Yes, but if I am right, he’s already managed that…”

“What?” John followed Sherlock into the carriage, to find Findlay Murray and James Sholto, bound hand and foot, sitting facing each other across the carriage. Below, set into the floor, sat a flickering contraption of bright chrome metal and lights, a rather disconcertingly large bomb. Already armed. Horrified, John could see the timer running down rapidly.. Sherlock was frantically trying to work out if there was a way to stop it. John looked at the man who had disappeared from his life nearly two years before, and silently fumed that they would most likely not have any time at all to enjoy their reunion before everything went tits up.

“John, we need to disarm this…” Sherlock was muttering. “Moran may have known how to do it but you were a little too effective in your...defence.”

“Well, I am sorry, when I’m faced with a murderous man pointing a gun at me I don’t tend to think _‘oh, we might need him alive to disarm the bomb I know nothing about’_ , do I? And don’t tell me you didn’t call bomb squad?”

“No of course not, I called you, didn’t I? I hoped you might know something about how these work?”

“I was a doctor, Sherlock, not bomb disposal.”

“You two,” Sherlock said, dashing across and wielding his knife to free the captives. “Surely one of you knows how to disarm one of these.”

“I was a Medic, Mr Holmes, not a bloody engineer,” Finn complained, massaging life back into his wrists.

Sholto shrugged. “This is beyond my ken,” he said gently. “Sorry, gentlemen. John,” he added, voice warm and sincere, if regretful. “I am glad to see you again but I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“NO! No, this...this can’t be happening. You’re soldiers. Someone must know how to stop this. I came back for you, John, for you. I did it, I destroyed Moriarty’s network, I came home…” Bitterness crept in and he sank to his knees. “And now I’ve got you into this…”

“Sherlock…” John got to his knees beside the bomb compartment and peered in. “John, I’m sorry. Truly. I… I am sorry. Can you forgive me?”

“Sherlock…”

“Please, John. Please. I...I never meant for any of this...This is monstrously unfair…”

“Sherlock…” John smiled, and then struggled to his feet again and placed a hand on Sherlock’s chest. “Stop. Just stop. I knew, okay? Rather I realised, and I knew you were not dead. Have known for a while actually.”

“How, John? I was careful…”

John retrieved the pencil stub from his pocket. “Yours. Found in the graveyard. Mycroft had it analysed. Knew it could only have been dropped by you. I recognised it.”

“Recognised it?”

“Yes, it’s the one you burned and got blood all over, you stabbed someone with it, remember? For someone you always accused of seeing but not observing, I think I did okay there really. When it tested positive for blood, it confirmed what I already knew. You did leave it as a message though, didn’t you? You might have played careful but you still wanted to try.”

“I...yes, I hoped, but I could not be certain you’d even find it.”

“Well, find it I certainly did. Well, one of us did. You can thank Fin there. He found it, not me. So here we are.”

“And now...we don’t have time...Please, forgive me? You have to…” Sherlock was near to tears.

“Sherlock….” John paused for effect, studying the complex infuriating man in front of him. He sighed. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, of course I forgive you. We can talk about it later.”

“John?” A frown creased the man’s brow. “In case you missed it, we don’t have a later.”

“Sherlock.” John let his eyes travel to the bomb display. It was currently flickering and trying to display lots of numbers at the same time. He watched Sherlock’s eyes follow his, his realisation, his shock.

“John? What did you just do?”

“There’s an off switch, Sherlock.” John leaned back down and showed him. “There’s always a chance they built an off switch in there, just in case.” There was a bark of laughter from Finn and a huff of exasperation from Sholto. The noise Sherlock made was more telling. He stuffed a gloved hand over his mouth and stifled a sob.

“Ya wee bastard, Watson,” Finn chuckled. “Ye did nay know there would be one…”

“No of course not, but it was worth a try, seeing as how nobody else has a blind clue what to do. We were lucky, that’s all. God, I need a drink.”

“John...I thought you said you didn’t know what to do?” Sherlock accused.

“That’s not quite what I said…I believe I said I was a doctor, not bomb disposal, which wasn’t a lie. I really do not know how to disarm one of these, but I know people, Sherlock, and people allow for mistakes when they have no intention of being blown sky high with their creation. Moran was arrogant. He’s not a suicide bomber. No way he’d allow himself to be blown up so... Anyway, I suggest we leave it to the big boys and get out of here, considering this thing is still armed and dangerous. And here are the cavalry.” Bobbing lights were getting nearer coming along the tunnel.

“Mycroft’s men?" Sherlock speculated.

“Bomb Squad hopefully. Gentlemen, I believe a celebratory drink is in order.”

**0000000000**

“I ought to thump you, for what you put me through, Sherlock.” John was tense, facing off his best friend in their rooms at 221b. Sherlock looked wrong footed, uncertain.

“I thought.... You forgave me…”

“Yes, I did but that doesn’t cancel all those months, years of grieving and missing you and…” John choked off what he had been about to say. They had never said anything about their feelings for each other before Sherlock disappeared. “You left me behind, you didn’t trust me to come with you, to help…”

“John. I know...things cannot go back to what they were before...You understand why I did it? Please, say you understand that at least.”

“Of course I do. Mycroft kept me updated about it all. You’ve been all over the world, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and really I didn’t need to.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“All the cases I helped with, most proved to have nothing to do with Moriarty’s so-called network. Red Herrings, John. He was very clever, he had the last laugh. He sent me on a wild goose chase that lasted years when I might have been back here with you… There were only two operatives in his network; Moran and Morstan.”

“Morstan?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, I lost the trail on that one.”

“Funny…”

“Funny haha, or funny odd?”

“Funny odd. I know someone called Morstan.”

“It’s not an uncommon name, John.”

“No, but…”

“But, what?”

“Might be coincidence...But your brother says the Universe is rarely so lazy, so..."

"So?"

"Mike Morstann is...was a soldier, in my regiment, but he went missing, presumed dead. I knew his sister, Mary. She and I were...well, you know, for a very short time. She got a bit demanding, and she was unhealthily obsessed with her brother. Mike was a bastard and a risk taker, and nobody really liked him. A bit of a bully, really. Awful to say it but when he went missing nobody really mourned him.”

“How on earth did you end up with her?”

“Long story. On leave, we went to the pub, she came to meet him, we hit it off. End of. Spent the night with her, all she could say was how good her brother was, how kind, how gorgeous, and it turned out all she wanted me for was a threesome with her and her brother…”

“And did you?”

“What? Sherlock, no! I most certainly did not.”

“Pity, the findings from such a situation could have been interesting.”

“Only you…” John said, exasperated. “Morstan could be your man though, after the connection with Moran and Sholto.”

“Or woman.” Sherlock was busy texting. “His sister might be just as dangerous. I’m telling Mycroft about this. He can take it from here. I think I’ve done enough.” Sherlock paused. “ _We’ve_ done enough,” he amended.

“But Sherlock..." John was surprised. "You live for the work, remember?”

“Not any more, John." Familiar, and oh-so-missed, pale green eyes stared into his. The lips quirked into a smile. "I also live for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * IC1 refers to Police use of Identity Codes or IC to classify ethnicity. In the US it would be Caucasian, Black, Latino, etc. IC1 is white European. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IC_codes


End file.
